


It Started with a Quiche

by adrabbler



Series: It Started With a Quiche [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 21:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 60
Words: 30,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrabbler/pseuds/adrabbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young dentist Arthur Kirkland transfers to Paris for his new job (and to search for a mysterious young Frenchman he'd met years ago in China). Everything goes along normally until one day he wakes up to see a mysterious plate of quiche on his kitchen table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Conversations are in French unless said otherwise or America is in the scene.

“Oh. You’re awake. Breakfast is almost ready.”  
  
“Right,” said Arthur with a yawn as he sat down.  
  
One would say that having your French chef neighbour breaking and entering your flat to cook for you regularly is lucky. It didn’t mean that Arthur was happy about being lucky though.  
  
It wasn’t always like this. He’d only started living in Paris a few months ago. He had found a job the year before, which was located in France, but that wasn’t the only reason why he came.  
  
A few years back, when he was still a student and vacationing in Beijing, he’d been distraught. The rigours of his studies had taken a toll on him and he decided to just sit somewhere in the middle of the busy street one late November evening and just break down. He had been doing well at being ignored until a man with black hair and grey eyes stopped right in front of him.  
  
“Are you all right?” the man asked with an unmistakable French accent.  
  
At the time, Arthur couldn’t answer because he was hiccupping. But he did try his best to tell the nosy stranger to leave him the fuck alone.  
  
The man put the groceries he was carrying on Arthur’s lap. The Brit had looked up at the man, outraged.  
  
“Mon dieu, zhat was ‘eavy.” He proceeded to stretch his limbs. “If you can carry zhat for me, I will gladly treat you to some ‘ot chocolate.”  
  
Before Arthur could tell him to fuck off, the man had already started walking away. He didn’t know what possessed him but he followed the man all the way to the café.  
  
“You don’t ‘ave to tell me anything,” the man said, sipping his chocolate. “But it might take off some load from your shoulders if you opened up to somebody. I’m someone ‘om you don’t know and will likely never meet again. I sink you should exploit ze opportunity.”  
  
It made sense, so Arthur did. It was strange being comforted by a stranger, but it was nonetheless uplifting. They had talked for hours and parted without exchanging names or personal details.  
  
Now that Arthur was in Paris, he regretted not asking for it, especially because he could not, for the love of the queen, remember the man’s face. He was curious in finding out who the man was and properly introduce himself as a gentleman ought to do.  
  
Sadly, he didn’t remember much of the conversation they had or what his problem was back then. He remembered nothing save for his hair and eye colour. Unfortunately, that was not enough information for him to search properly. He wasn’t even sure if the man could remember him either. He’d decided that he’d go to Paris on the off-chance that he might meet the man again.  
  
The last thing he remembered was the last thing the man had said to him before they parted ways.  
  
 _“Come and visit Paris some time. It is a wonderful city.”_  
  
So he did.  
  
Like a true Englishman, he wasn’t particularly happy the moment he stepped on French soil. He didn’t really expect to be particularly jolly—after all, he was in France—even if he actually liked the job he had here. His first week in Paris was normal enough: the apartment he'd found was typically French (except for that heavenly aroma of food that seemed to surround the place), his first days in the job were doing quite well (even though his patients were a little sceptical at first about having an Englishman in that profession, which is just a stupid stereotype, thank you very much), French people wrinkled their noses at his English-accented French, his cooking wasn’t ruined by the Frenchness of the air, some poor bloke in the building occasionally screaming profanities early in the morning, etc.  
  
It was too bad that it didn’t last long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fanfic and only Human AU one in Hetalia, which I wrote for the fruk_giftbasket event on LJ last August 2010. This is going to have more chapters because I'm going to put in Francis' parts as well.
> 
> I am aware of the terrible title. Feel free to tease me lightly.


	2. Day 2

**_Day 2_ **

_Francis felt his lungs burn as the smoke got inside his chest and started to choke him. His body was drenched in sweat. His eyes watered from the thick black smoke._

_“Maman! Papa!” he shouted desperately, inhaling more smoke._

_He heard something crash into the floor; making the ground shake and making him lose his balance._

_“Maman!” he cried, coughing, as his consciousness started to slip away. “Papa!”_

_The fires continued to crackle as it consumed his house. Nobody answered him._

_“Maman! Papa!”_

 

"Maman! Papa!" Francis cried, sitting up, wide awake, eyes wet with tears and body trembling. He looked at his surroundings, seeing that he was in his room, in his flat in Paris, far away from Lorraine. Safe and not burning.

He wiped the tears roughly from his face with a trembling hand as he hiccupped. _Just a dream. Just a dream._ He could still smell the smoke in his nose. He covered his face with his hands and openly sobbed, trying to will the images away from his mind.

It had been so long. More than twenty years, in fact. _It's just a dream._

After he’d calmed himself down enough, he jumped out of bed and rushed to his kitchen, inspecting his oven and stove. It hadn’t been lit, not since yesterday, at least. There was no leaking gas. He went to his sockets, inspecting each and every one carefully, sniffing at each one to check if they had somehow malfunctioned.

“Where is that smell coming from?” he growled, body still trembling from the nightmare he’d had. He stomped to the window and opened the windows wide, to get the smell out.

It didn’t. It worsened.

Gritting his teeth, he turned around and was about to go to the bathroom when he kicked Nada’s bowl , spilling water everywhere on his floor. Nada stirred and started barking.

“Merde!” he shouted. He took several gulps of air to calm himself down, mentally telling himself not to panic over that strange smell of smoke. He ran back to his bedroom, took his robe and put it on. He had to investigate.


	3. Day 4

_**Day 4** _

 

"It could've come from another building," his landlord said with an easy shrug.

"It was not from another building!"

"Are you sure it wasn't cigarette smoke?"

"I'm absolutely sure that it wasn't!" Francis insisted for the nth time. "It was the distinct smell of something burning." He had a sneaking suspicion that it was burning food, but he doesn't really know what that smells like because he's never ever burnt food before. If it was the case, that would make it worse. 

Louis Bourbon, his landlord, just gave him a patronising look. "Francis...look..."

"Don't use that tone with me!" Francis warned him, knowing exactly what is coming next.

"Could it be that it's because of your arso--"

"My phobia has nothing to do with it," Francis snapped, folding his arms on his chest.

Louis just looked at him cautiously. "If there was a fire, the fire alarm would have gone off."

"I know what I smelt!" Francis retorted indignantly.

Louis gave him a tired smile. "Francis, remember when you also complained about smoke in Mrs Petaine's apartment downstairs wafting into your windows?"

Francis reddened indignantly. "Well--Well, it's not my fault she burnt her hair with a hair iron!" Okay, so he did lie about the smoke wafting into his window. He couldn't help it! What if a fire had in fact broken out? It was better to be safe than sorry! "And that doesn't even count in this conversation. I've been smelling the smoke for days now!" Three days, to be exact.

"Francis," Louis said, massaging his temples. "I can assure you that all our fire alarms work perfectly. We have routine checks every week. There couldn't have been a fire anywhere in the building."

"There doesn't have to be a fire for something to burn!"

His landlord raised a brow at him. "I thought you were complaining about a fire?"

Francis groaned in frustration, and then exhaled, trying to calm himself down. "Louis, we have been friends for quite some time now," Francis said, trying to reason with him. "And I have been a tenant for almost six years! Surely, surely, you could do something about this?"

Louis looked at him and then shrugged. "All right. I'll see what I can do, Francis."

Francis closed his eyes and sighed in relief. "Thank you, Louis." At least something was going to be done about it.

"I'll get back to you as soon as possible," Louis said, nodding. "Oh, by the way, have you met your new neighbour yet?"

His eyes opened and he looked at his landlord. "New neighbour?"

"Yes. 715. English."

"English?" Francis asked, raising a brow.

"Yes, very. With sweater vests and everything. Thickest eyebrows I've ever seen," Louis said, shaking his head in seeming disbelief. "But he seems like a good man. I think you two might get along."

A sweater-vested Englishman with thick eyebrows. He lost interest already. "Hmmmm. Just do me a favour and look into that fire problem, will you?"

Louis rolled his eyes at him. "Yes, Francis."

Satisfied, Francis left for work.


	4. Day 6

_**Day 6** _

 

He locked his flat and stepped back, running his fingers through his hair. He hasn’t had that much sleep yet again. His landlord had told him yesterday that his investigation had concluded and he had confirmed that there had been no fire in the building. Apparently, Louis had not gotten complaints from the other tenants. He had already dismissed the case as another one of Francis’ arsonphobic nose’s adventures. Hmph.

He glared at the 714 placard pinned on his door. He didn’t imagine the smoke.  It had been there. It was just that Francis was probably the only one to smell it. He exhaled. He didn’t want to leave this flat. He loved this place. But if he wasn’t going to get his much needed beauty rest, he might as well start looking for a new place to live in.

He heard a squeak somewhere near the elevators. Little Mona, one of his neighbours’ daughter, peeking just at the corner near the elevators caught his eye. He smiled at her and gestured for her to come over closer.

The little girl did, running to him as fast as her short pudgy legs could take her. Francis caught her as she jumped at him.

Francis grunted as he arranged her in his arms. She was getting heavier. “You’re getting bigger and bigger every day, ma chere.”

Little Mona just giggled and gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek, instantly relieving him of his stress and tension.

“And what is the naughty little girl doing out here alone? Were you planning to ask for bonbons?”

The little girl shook her head. “There was a funny smell.”

Francis’ eyes widened. “You smelt it too?”

Little Mona leaned back to look at him and nodded.

“I knew I wasn’t imagining it!” Francis hissed. He then looked at the little girl again. “Where did you smell it, ma petite?”

She puffed her cheeks and pointed at the door right next to his. 715. _L’Anglais_.

Francis clenched his jaw as he glared at the door. So that’s where it was coming from. He marched over, still holding Mona in his arms and knocked loudly on the door, fully intending to shout at the tenant inside.

“He’s not there,” she said, tugging at Francis’ sleeve. “He left this morning.”

“You saw him?”

Mona nodded and then put her fingers over her eyebrows, as if to emulate knitted brows.

Francis pursed his lips and then looked back at the door. “He’s bound to come back some time.”

“He’s only here in the morning,” she informed him. “I don’t like him. He’s scary-looking.”

Francis raised a brow at that as he continued to stare at the golden 715 pinned on the man’s door. “Don’t worry, ma chere, Uncle Francis will do something about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little Mona is Monaco.


	5. Day 7

**_Day 7_**

Francis just stared at the screen. Well. He hadn't really thought of that. It would explain the man's alleged hairiness and the sweater vests. He should have asked for more details from Little Mona or Louis.

Francis frowned, feeling guilt rise up in his chest. 

He sighed.

 

And with that, Francis found himself promising to his dearest and oldest friend that he would check on his neighbour, who has been causing him so much sleepless nights, instead of calling the police to have the bastard evicted.

It wasn't that Francis had trouble with befriending people. In fact, he was very good at interacting with people from different walks of life. It's just that he'd already started harbouring a mixture of hatred and guilt for his neighbour. Hatred because of all the traumas the man has aroused, and guilt because of the great possibility that his neighbour is a lonely old man struck with dementia or who knows what. Both feelings made him adamant to even see this man at all. Befriending him was out of the question. How does he help someone without having to see him?

"No sleep again chef?" Feliciano Vargas, his cute bouncy commis asked as soon as he came to his station. The kitchen was already in full-swing, as expected of a restaurant in a five-star hotel.

Francis just smiled at his junior. Such a ray of sunshine he was.

"Chef, if it's that bad, you can sleep at my house! Fratello is not in Paris anyway!"

"That is a generous offer, Feliciano, but I can't," Francis said, shaking his head. "I might not be able to go back to an apartment if I left it alone for one night."

Feliciano pouted. "Did you find out where the smoke was coming from at least?"

Francis rolled his eyes. "Yes. One of my neighbours says it's my new neighbour next door. I suspect he's been burning his food while he's cooking."

"That's terrible!" cried his commis, clearly despairing at the thought of wasted food. Francis has taught him well.

"Yes," Francis sighed. "But it's not enough to trip the alarms, at least so it's not that bad, I suppose. My neighbour says the man only cooks breakfast, so there's nothing much to worry about."

Feliciano hummed in thought. "Why don't you just cook for him, chef?" Feliciano asked. "I'm sure anyone would appreciate that! You might even make a new friend!"

"Cook for him!" Francis laughed. "Cook for--" He stopped midsentence. That suggestion actually made sense.

"Chef...? Are you all right?"

Francis looked at his cute bright-eyed commis, and smiled. "That was a brilliant idea, Feliciano."

"Really?" his commis asked, looking much brighter and happier.

"Yes," Francis said, deep in thought, patting the younger man's head. "Brilliant."

Later that night, before going into his own home, Francis decided to snoop a little. How does he get the food into his neighbour’s flat?

“If I were a stereotypical Englishman,” Francis mused aloud to himself, “where would I hide my keys?”

He pursed his lips as a thought came to him. He stooped down to the welcome doormat and lifted it up gingerly. There was a key underneath.

He rolled his eyes. _How predictable._


	6. Day 8

**_Day 8_**  
  
He found a plate of quiche sitting innocently at the breakfast table. Now, despite the fact that Arthur was somewhat proud of his cooking, even he wouldn’t claim to have made something this perfect. That, added to the fact that he didn’t know how to make quiche.  
  
Next to it was a note.  


 

  
  
He flipped the note over and over but found no signature. It was odd. He didn’t remember it being customary for the French to randomly cook their neighbours breakfast.   
  
A sick feeling fell at the pit of his stomach. Did someone trespass in his flat?  
  
After a quick check around, and finding nothing missing, he decided to just eat the damn thing. The person who did it might have had good intentions.  
  
Arthur cautiously took the first bite. It was delicious. No, magnificent—no,  _perfect_. It melted in the mouth and exploded in flavour. The bacon blended well with the cheese and there was no hint of anything burnt at all. It was definitely something he didn’t make. Arthur had finished it quickly, much to his disappointment.  
  
He decided that he’d ask the landlord who was responsible. He might have a clue. But first, he needed to get to work. After washing the plate, he quickly got ready and headed out the door.  
  
“How was breakfast?”  
  
Arthur turned around, startled, hand frozen on his door knob. The man who had spoken was his neighbour next door. Shoulder-length gold hair, lean build and sapphire eyes. The man was the same height as Arthur. He was dressed rather fashionably and sported a stubble on his chin. He noted, much to his chagrin, that the man was quite handsome if it weren’t for the general air of Frenchness that floated about his person. For all he knew, his neighbour could have been a model.  
  
“So it was you.” He chuckled weakly as a reluctant blush crept into his cheeks. “You didn’t have to do something like that…” His blush deepened.  
  
Arthur was never good at paying compliments.  
  
The man laughed. “Of course I had to! Otherwise we would all suffocate from the poison cloud that comes out of your burnt food.” With that, he left, laughing to himself.  
  
It was then that Arthur decided he hated his neighbour and that he would religiously double-bolt the door.  
  
That was also the day when his neighbour, who later introduced himself as Francis Bonnefoy, started trespassing into his loft to cook him breakfast, allegedly for the good of the other tenants and France.

 


	7. Day 10

** _Day 10_ **

  
  
Arthur figured that he should just tell the Frenchman to stop invading his home as gentlemanly as he should, given the situation. Through a note he slipped under Francis’ door:  
  


 

That night, Francis sent an email to Jeanne.

 

_My dearest Jeanne,_

_You were wrong. He is not an old man. He’s just a mentally challenged Englishman with no sense of gratitude. This isn’t a mission, Jeanne. This is a trial. God is testing me. He has put Satan in the flat next to mine, and I will tell you now: **I will not lose**._

_Lots of love,_

_Francis_


	8. Day 11

** _Day 11_ **

  
  
Arthur found a note next to his breakfast.  
  



	9. Day 12

** _Day 12_ **

  
  
If there was one thing that was remarkable about the English, it was that they never surrender without a fight—especially to the French. He vowed to remove the French menace that was terrorizing him every morning. Moving out was simply not an option.  
  
After pondering about it for a considerable amount of time, Arthur speculated that Francis must come at around seven in the morning to cook him breakfast. Since the landlord wasn’t keen on letting him change the locks, even after the reasons he had given, Arthur decided to beat him to making him breakfast instead and woke up at six.  
  
As he made his way to the kitchen, he couldn’t help but be pissed at the smell of coffee in his flat and at the Frenchman sitting at his table and drinking the said beverage.  
  
“Bonjour,” greeted Francis. “You are up early this morning.”  
  
“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?”  
  
“I am here to cook you breakfast, of course,” he said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. He gestured at the plate in front of him.  
  
“How long have you been here?”  
  
“A while,” he answered, sipping his coffee and scratching his chin. “I couldn’t sleep.”  
  
Arthur’s eye twitched. “Get the hell out.”  
  
“Make me.”  
  
Francis learnt that day that Arthur had had a part time job at a pub in London in his teen years and was in fact very good at throwing people out. Too bad he couldn’t keep them away.


	10. Day 14

** _Day 14_ **

 

Things were going relatively well. Arthur hasn’t touched his stove ever since he started giving him breakfast every morning, which resulted in Francis getting his much-needed beauty sleep.

A little bit of gratitude would have been splendid, however. You would think that if one had a five-star chef cooking breakfast for you, you would at least be a little friendlier. But no. Arthur Kirkland was beyond common courtesy. The man treated him like he was some sort of trespasser out to get his belongings. _Ugh_. He could be so stubborn. It wouldn’t surprise him if Mr Kirkland would start ~~cooking~~ burning food again, just to spite him.

“You could put locks on his cupboards,” Belle, the pâtissière joked.

“I know someone who can do that!” Feliciano exclaimed, jumping and running somewhere.

Feliciano brought Yong-Soo over, who seemed to be munching on something. He must’ve nicked some food again. Mr Wang was going to be so mad.

“Yong-soo is very good at mechanical and electronic things, isn’t that right?”

Yong-soo just nodded. Well, that would make sense. After all, the young man is studying…engineering? Or was it physics? Francis couldn’t remember anymore. All he remembers is that the Korean kid was part of the Erasmus Mundus program, and got a part-time job as a plongeur there by some miracle.

“He’s good with any kind of locks because it’s his ‘ _hobby_ ’,” Belle said, shrugging. “Sometimes I wonder if he’s a cat burglar or something.”

“I’d look great in a cat suit too,” Yong-Soo said, winking at her.

“Chef needs to fix some locks on his neighbour’s cupboards. Do you think you can do that?”

Yong-Soo raised a brow at both of them. “His neighbour’s? Is that legal?”

“Of course it is,” Francis answered with a Cheshire grin. Arthur was the kind of person who seemed to be too spaced out to notice anything. Why, he didn’t even notice how Francis was able to get into his flat, judging by how his secret key holder hasn’t changed. “Could you come by tomorrow?”

The plongeur shrugged. “Sure.”


	11. Day 17

**_Day 17_ **

 

“…and you know what he did? He sent me a note telling me that my talents aren’t appreciated!”

“People these days,” Dr Gilbert Beilschmidt, his chiropractor friend, slurred. “It’s hard to get good neighbours anymore.”

“True,” Francis sighed. “I would have gladly had him evicted, but Louis is so hard to talk to.”

Gilbert laughed, rubbing at his face drunkenly. “Why don’t you just let him eat his own cooking? He’ll die out soon enough.”

“I would have, but I can’t stand the smoke,” Francis grumbled. “And Jeanne would never forgive me if she knew.”

“That’s tough,” Gilbert said, eyes drooping. “How’s Lapucelle?”

“She’s doing well,” Francis said, finally smiling. “Chemotherapy is understandably hard, but she’s fighting on.”

“Good,” Gilbert said, blinking. “Ah I miss her. She’s got a lot of fight in her. I love women like those.”

“If you’re planning to court her, you’ll have to go through me first,” Francis said snootily.

Gilbert blew a raspberry. “You’re not even her real big brother.”

“I am all the big brother she needs,” Francis retorted.

“You and your stupid sister complex.” Gilbert rolled over on his couch. “Tell me about this Feliciano kid.”

“Oh? Are you getting interested in him too?”

“I’m straight, dummkopf. I just want to know more about him.”

“And you say I have the sibling complex,” Francis muttered. “He’s my absolutely adorable commis. A bright ray of sunshine in the hectic kitchen. He is also a very talented student--”

“Is he a heartbreaker like you too?”

Francis frowned at him. He knew what this was about. After all, Francis was the only gay person Gilbert had ever given his ‘okay-to-date’ seal of approval for his brother. “You can’t possibly suggest that I take feelings—“

“Can it,” Gilbert snorted and then yawned. “I’ll see for myself.”

Francis harrumphed. “I can vouch for him. You’d love him, I’m sure.”

Gilbert was just silent.

“Dieu! You’re even more neurotic than I—“

He heard Gilbert start to snore. He looked at his friend who was already knocked out on his couch. He rolled his eyes fondly at him, went to his room, took a blanket and draped it over his friend’s sleeping form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm toying with the idea of making a spin-off for Gilbert--something along the lines of a brotherly love thing and how he became friends with Francis and Antonio in the first place. Hmmm. Should I?


	12. Day 19

** _Day 19_ **

  
  
Thank God he worked with Germans instead of Frenchmen--or at least he chose to hang out with them anyway. It looked like the only nice French person in France was that man he met in China—and he wasn’t even sure if he really does live in France. He’d already asked quite a handful of black-haired Frenchmen if they’d ever been to China. Most of them just brushed him off while some humoured him a little. So far, he was having no luck.  
  
Maybe it was because he was English. Maybe he stood out because he was English. Either way, the landlord refused to let him change locks even after Arthur had presented his argument. Apparently, Francis had been living there for years and had good reputation which outweighs the reputation of an irate Englishman. If that was possible.  
  
Added to that was the fact that he really can’t point out anything wrong with what was happening because there was no harm done; and as much as he hated to admit it, Francis was in fact doing him a favour.  
  
Arthur sat at the bar and waited with his dreadful mug of ale. It figured that they wouldn’t have good ale in Frogland, but he wouldn’t have those damnable wines France was proud of. God knows he didn’t need any more French things in him.  
  
He was waiting for Gilbert, a friend at work. Germans were known all throughout Europe as silent efficient and strict people. They were known to have little to no concept of fun. Gilbert was German, but was obviously unaware of this stereotype as he didn’t act it out. Perhaps it explained why Ludwig, his younger brother, seemed to have been the epitome of one.  
  
Gilbert’s personality closely resembled that of his cousin from America—especially with his liberal use of the word “awesome”. So it came as no surprise at all that Arthur was able to stand him; he had already had training with his cousin.  
  
Maybe it was that outgoing attitude that made them friends so quickly. And right now, in a country full of snooty French people, maybe that was just what he needed. His fluency in English was a definite bonus.  
  
 _“A neighbour trespassing your place?” Gilbert asked. “That sucks. If we were in the vaterland, that bastard would have already been caught. Right, Lud?”_  
  
 _Ludwig merely grunted and handed him a brown envelope before taking his coffee and leaving._  
  
 _“Danke!” Gilbert called out to his brother as he opened the envelope and took a look at the x-ray. He whistled after examining it. “Forty two degrees. This kid is going to need a back brace.”_  
  
 _He looked up at his English friend. “Well, don’t worry,” he said, patting Arthur heavily on the shoulder. “You can always hang out with the awesome me. But then again, I’m not always free, you know? Maybe I’ll introduce you to my good friend—I mean he pretty much knows everyone around here. He’s awesome; though not as awesome as yours truly. I’m sure you’ll get along with him just fine, I mean, he hates his neighbour too.”_  
  
 _He put the x-ray back in the envelope. “Let’s go out on Saturday. Drinks on me.”_  
  
To be honest, Arthur only went for the drinks, which, unfortunately, didn’t seem to be working out for him as well. Stupid country and their equally stupid liquor.

A hand clapped on his shoulder and Arthur almost choked on his horrid ale.  
  
“You’re early.” Arthur could hear Gilbert smirk through his coughing fit. “I brought the friend I was telling you about.”  
  
Arthur turned, fully intending to yell at his friend when he saw something unpleasant and French standing right behind him.  
  
“YOU!” they said almost at the same time.  
  
“Oh. You guys know each other already?”  
  
“Of course I know him,” Arthur said, seething.  
  
“Unfortunately,” said Francis with a snobbish air, not even bothering to switch in English.  
  
“I thought you said you didn’t have a French friend,” Gilberts said, frowning.  
  
“I don’t.”  
  
Gilbert brightened. “Oh, well then, Francis, this is my friend from work, Arthur,” he said, gesturing to the heavily-browed man in French, then switched to English: “Arthur, this is one of my best friends, Francis.”  
  
“I must say I’m not at all pleased to be introduced to you.”  
  
“Likewise, I’m sure.” He replied in English, to emphasize his displeasure to the frog.  
  
“All right then!” cheered Gilbert. “Tonight’s beer night and we’re going to celebrate the new friendship brought about by the awesome me!”  
  
“WE’RE NOT FRIENDS.”  
  
Arthur realized that night that Gilbert resembled Alfred more than he thought, especially with his selective hearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today was a good day.


	13. Day 20

**_ Day 20 _ **

 

“What are you up to?” Gilbert asked him, swaying a little bit, sounding strangely much more sober than he actually is, as Antonio ran to the bathroom to try to rescue his ruined shoes. Just as Antonio had arrived at the discotheque at midnight, Arthur had promptly puked on his shoes and thus ruined the night for all of them. He had never seen Antonio get so angry before in the 14 years they’ve been friends. He would have gladly left his neighbour on the floor to be trampled on by the discotheque’s other patrons, but Gilbert wouldn’t let them leave him behind because of his Hippocratic oath or some other bull he insisted he had to keep up with.

And now they’re here, in Francis’ apartment, to salvage whatever’s left of the night (and Antonio’s shoes) after having just deposited a very drunk English dentist to the flat next door.

“Excuse me?” Francis asked, raising a brow at him as he removed his gloves.

“You’re the trespassing neighbour he’s been complaining about,” his friend continued, plopping down onto his couch. “So what the hell are you up to?”

Francis scowled at him. “You’re asking the wrong question, mon ami. I think you meant to say ‘he’s the bastard of an arsonist neighbour you were complaining about? Why didn’t I realise it before? I shouldn’t have dragged you to that discotheque! Oh Francis!’”

“You’re missing the point,” Gilbert said, waving his hand at him. “You cook breakfast for him.”

“As a safety measure,” Francis said, narrowing his eyes at him. “I’ve told you about this before—“

“Mein Gott, you’re an item!” Gilbert guffawed.

Francis coloured indignantly. “We most certainly are _not_!” Great, the one time he’s not even slightly interested in someone is the time Gilbert tries to set him up.

“Toni, did you hear?” Gilbert hollered.

“Francis! You’d better not!” Antonio shouted from the bathroom, sounding annoyed.

“I’m not!” he defended himself.

“Hey! Art’s on the level!” Gilbert said, still guffawing like an idiot.

“Shut up, Gilbert!” Francis hissed at him.

“Is he even gay?” Antonio asked.

“You bet your ass he is!” Gilbert replied, wiping the tears from his eyes.

“How would you know?” Francis retorted, crossing his arms and glaring at his friend.

“Gay-dar,” Gilbert said smugly, hand gestured as if aiming a gun at Francis.

“So Ludwig told you,” Francis concluded huffily. Contrary to what he believes, Gilbert doesn’t have a gay-dar. “And I suppose he also told you to let Rosbif out himself at his own discretion?”

Gilbert giggled. “Oops.”

Francis rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you just set him up with your brother, hmmm?”

Gilbert made a face. “Ew, _no_! Think of the children! Every Beilschmidt has to be freakishly handsome!”

“They’re both men, Gilbert,” Antonio said, stepping out of the bathroom barefoot. He didn’t look as angry as he did when they were still at the discotheque, but he still looked a little pissed.

“So you deem me handsome enough to be a Beilschmidt?” Francis asked, amused.

“You’ll do,” Gilbert said, nonchalantly waving at him for a few moments before his brows scrunched up. “Wait—does that mean you’re picking Art over Lud?”

“I’m not picking _him_ over anyone!” Francis snapped.

“You, my friend, lost out,” Gilbert said, obviously patronising him in his drunken state. “The Beilschmidts make the best boyfriends.”

Francis groaned, massaging his temples. He knew he shouldn’t have accepted Gilbert’s invitation for drinks that night—especially when he was bringing a friend along.

“He’s drunk, Francis, don’t mind him,” Antonio said, patting his shoulder. “Oh, could you tell your neighbour to pay for my shoes? They’re completely ruined.”

“I’m so sorry for Gilbert’s friend, Toni,” Francis muttered.

“And for Francis’s boyfriend, Toni,” Gilbert interjected, snorting.

“Go to sleep, Gilbert!” he hissed at his drunk friend and then turned back to Antonio.  “You didn’t even get to enjoy your last night in Paris!”

Antonio waved him off. “It’s all right! I’ll be back in time for Valentine’s day.”

“Oh!” Francis swooned. “I’m so envious! No distance can ever thwart your love!”

“When are you two gettin’ married?” Gilbert slurred.

Antonio chuckled and shrugged. Mentioning Belle always brightened his mood. “Maybe after we’ve decided whether to live in France or in Spain?”

“I give you a fair warning,” Francis said, clutching his friend’s shoulders. “Mr Wang will fight you to the death for his pâtissière.”

“And I will fight to the death for my beautiful, beautiful Belle,” Antonio said, eyes sparkling.

“That was lame,” Gilbert chortled from the couch.

They both rolled their eyes at him. “Don’t listen to him, mon cher, he’s just jealous because he’s single.”

“Yeah I’m jealous,” Gilbert said sarcastically and sleepily. “Toni’s got Belle and Frannie’s got Art—“

“Will you stop that?” Francis cut him off, getting really annoyed.

Antonio just laughed. “Give Francis some credit, Gil. Personally, I don’t like him for you. He’s kind of rude.”

“You see? Besides, I have standards,” Francis said snootily, nose in the air.

“You cook for him for free and you have a key to his apartment,” Gilbert muttered, eyes shut, obviously about to lose consciousness. “If you’re not his girlfriend, you’re his mother.”

Antonio laughed. “He’s right about that one.”

“Toni!” Francis reprimanded him.

“I’m on your side, remember?” Antonio said, smiling warmly at him. “I still vote ‘no’.”

“Thank you,” Francis said, pinching his cheek.

“I vote ‘ja’,” Gilbert muttered, eyes still closed, raising his hand lazily. “You really should get to know him, Fran.” His friend then yawned widely and started to settle on his couch. “He’s pretty cool.”

Francis rolled his eyes at him and went to his bedroom to get them both blankets. He sincerely doubted that.


	14. Day 24

**_Day 24_ **

  
  
Arthur woke up extra early. As much as he hated waking up at three in the morning, he had to. He was going to beat the Frenchman at his own game and cook breakfast for himself early.  
  
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he slowly made his way to the kitchen. He’d make himself a proper English breakfast: streaky bacon, eggs, toast, sausages and a cup of Earl Grey.  
  
 _That will teach that frog bastard._  He yawned. It really was too early to wake up.  
  
He reached out to the pantry door and tugged. That was odd. Why wasn’t it opening? He tugged it some more and it remained closed. Annoyed, he looked up and saw his cupboard bolted.  
  
His eyes widened in outrage and went to look at the other cupboards. All of those that contained food were bolted shut, even the freezer—save for the one where he put his tea in.  
  
His fingers ran through his hair in frustration. How could he have not noticed this?  
  
Oh right, the only time he ate at his house was during breakfast. He always ate at the hospital because he would usually be too tired to cook for himself when he came home.  
  
He growled a number of choice curses before seeing a note on the fridge.  
  


  
  
_That fucking frog._


	15. Day 25

**_Day 25_ **

  
  
“Arthur,” Gilbert said, his tone firm and disbelieving. “You’re a grown man in your late twenties.”  
  
Arthur’s brows rose. What did that have to do with anything?  
  
“You should be beyond this kind of thing already, you know?”  
  
“What in God’s name are you talking about?”  
  
“Man, and I thought he wasn’t your type after you hit on that black-haired man last week.”  
  
Arthur made a noise of indignation. He wasn’t hitting on the man; he was merely trying to see if the said man was the one he’d met in China.  
  
“If you want to know how he feels about you, then maybe you should just ask him.”  
  
Arthur’s jaw dropped and all the colour left his face. “WHERE THE BLOODY HELL DID YOU--!”  
  
Gilbert slammed his palm against Arthur’s mouth before he caused a commotion. “Could you keep it down? It doesn’t matter if you speak in English, we’re still in a hospital,” he hissed.  
  
Most of the doctors in the wing had agreed to speak in English when they didn’t want the patients to understand what they were saying. That, or at least the patients will pretend to not understand and let them carry on with their gossip.  
  
“I wasn’t asking you about that!” he hissed back once the hand was removed.  
  
Gilbert looked at him incredulously. He put his hands on his hips and studied Arthur. “You asked me what Francis said about you. Sounds very much like it, doesn’t it, Lily?”  
  
Lily smiled and nodded shyly.  
  
“T-That wasn’t what I meant!” He’d only wanted to know what Francis did in his loft while he was asleep. He thought he’d get a clue from Gilbert.  
  
“It sure sounded like it,” Berwald, the head nurse, said, patting Arthur in the back. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with liking your neighbour.”  
  
“Gilbert told us you two got along quite well,” Timo, the head surgeon, butted in with a smile after taking his clipboard and immediately left for the emergency room, Lily following closely behind him.  
  
Gilbert winked at him and went on his way, chuckling to himself.  
  
It took all of Arthur’s will power not to throw the clipboard he was holding at Gilbert. Knowing him, rumours might have already spread throughout the hospital like an epidemic.  
  
 _Fucking Jerry._


	16. Day 26

**_Day 26_ **

  
  
Arthur had decided, since the second week of his stay in Paris (about a week after the French bastard started invading his home to make him  ~~delicious~~  breakfast), that he would change his locks. Apparently, Francis had a knack at entering his home even when the door was double-bolted.  
  
He’d gotten permission from the landlord and got to changing the locks quickly.  
  
“Changing locks, I see.”  
  
Arthur looked up, his hand still around a screwdriver, and scowled. Francis stood just outside his door.  
  
“Theft problems?” he asked innocently.  
  
“What do you _think_?” Arthur retorted, coating it with as much sarcasm as he could muster.  
  
Francis tapped his chin in deep thought. “I’ve been living here for quite a while and I’ve never experienced such a thing. Perhaps they know you are English and therefore easy to pilfer from?”  
  
Arthur gritted his teeth. He could stab him with the screwdriver. He really could.  
  
“It’s to keep _you_ away from my home, you sodding French tosser!” he snarled.  
  
Francis chuckled heartily. “You silly Englishmen,” he said with so much amusement as though Arthur told him a very funny joke and disappeared into his own flat.  
  
Apparently, changing locks could not keep Francis out, no matter how reinforced the material is.  
  
 _Bugger._


	17. Day 28

**_Day 28_ **

 

France sat back on the bench, letting his head rest and his tired shoulders relax. The dinner rush was finally finished, and he was _exhausted_. He had worked two whole shifts to meet the demands of the restaurant and the requests of the patrons. Valentine’s Day was always one of the busiest days of the year.

“Francis, are you all right?”

He looked up at Belle, the pâtissière, and smiled at her. “Yes, I’m all right,” he answered back, smiling lazily at her.

She sat beside him and pecked him on the cheek. “Thank you for helping us again this year.”

“My pleasure,” Francis chuckled. Every year, on this day, they always have a lot of customers, mostly foreign, who want to propose to their special ladies. As is customary and probably overdone, most of these engagement rings would go in the desserts and rarely in the drinks. Just this evening they had thirty two men asking to have their rings stuffed in sweet things. One of which had a rare pink diamond almost the size of an unripe grape. Francis took it upon himself to help Belle whenever he wasn’t busy. After all, those rings cost an arm and a leg each. If one would get lost somewhere in the kitchen…well.

“Will Antonio be picking you up later?” Belle and his friend, Antonio Fernandez, were in a long term long-distance relationship and very much in love.

“Yes,” Belle gushed, blushing beautifully. “I’m excited.”

Francis sighed happily. “Oh, I wish I would be able to find a love like that someday. I envy you, ma chere.”

Belle hugged him. “You will, Francis. Someone as handsome, kind and talented as you would find someone, I’m sure.”

Francis giggled, patting her arm gently.

“What about that one man? I forgot his name.”

Francis pouted. “He is a friend. I don’t like him like that.”

Belle squeezed him before letting him go. “You’ll find someone someday, Francis,” she said, winking at him. “In the meantime, you should enjoy the dating scene!”

“Belle! Chef!” Feliciano squealed, trotting over to them, surprisingly still as energetic as this morning. “I’m so excited!”

“Of course you are,” Belle said, giggling and holding his commis’ hands. “It is your first date.”

“Now that you say that, I’m a little nervous too!”

“Don’t be,” Francis chided him. “I assure you, Ludwig is a very kind man. You are cute and adorable, and he’s obviously very, very interested in you.”

Feliciano crossed his fingers and mustered a determined look. “Ah, I hope so, Chef.” He turned to Belle. “Is Antonio picking you up later?”

“Yes, he’s picking me up at my apartment.”

“You need a ride?” Mr Wang, the manager asked her, emerging out of his office.

“I wouldn’t want to keep you from your date with Mrs Wang, sir.”

“You wouldn’t be keeping me from anything,” Mr Wang muttered under his breath.

“Oh! Everyone is going out on a romantic date but me!” Francis lamented.

Belle and Feliciano hugged him. “Don’t worry, Chef, you’ll find someone great!”

Francis sniffed. “If I had someone special, I would take him to watch the beautiful Eiffel tower at night and have a romantic picnic there. And he would be dazzled by my food.”

Mr Wang rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you just take that neighbour of yours to a date? You’ve already done the second half anyway.”

“Yeah, chef. He’s probably lonely.”

“I’d rather die!” Francis whined, making everybody and even himself laugh.


	18. Day 29

**_Day 29_ **

 

He stopped in his tracks. A man with black hair and grey eyes just passed him by. Could it be him? He didn’t know for sure. Should he ask?  
  
Should he?  
  
Arthur tapped the gent on the shoulder. The man turned around, revealing himself to be an extremely handsome man. His heart hammered against his chest, suddenly unsure of the idea.  
  
“Excuse me, this may sound silly, but have you ever been to Beijing?”  
  
The man looked at him, his brow arched. “Is it an English custom to randomly approach people with such poorly-thought out pick-up lines after Valentine’s day?”  
  
The Englishman’s face reddened.  _Stupid stupid stupid._  
  
The man crossed his arms across his chest. “Terribly sorry. I don’t like Englishmen with gigantic brows.” The man walked off, leaving Arthur on the street laden with shops that had yet to remove their Valentine decorations, bathing in the Parisian streetlight.  
  
“He did have a point, Rosbif,” came a voice from behind him. Arthur let out a manly shriek.  
  
He glared at the grinning Frenchman.  
  
“That was quite a horrible pick-up line." Francis then pointed at his eyebrows. "And your eyebrows are rather  _prominent_. Have you considered plucking?”  
  
Arthur flipped him the bird and started walking off. He really didn’t need this. He’d already been made fun of by a Frenchman he didn’t know. He didn’t need another to humiliate him further. He shouldn’t have transferred to Paris. Why didn’t he listen to his mum and stayed in jolly old England? To his displeasure, the frog followed him.  
  
“You know, I’ve also been to Beijing. Wonderful place. So much culture.”  
  
“I wasn’t asking you,” Arthur said through gritted teeth. Maybe Francis would take a hint and leave him to his misery in peace.  
  
“How would you have followed it up?”  
  
“Belt up, frog.”  
  
“I must say, he was quite rude. The French are usually friendlier than that.”  
  
 _Right._  He didn’t reply.  
  
“You seem to like brunettes, don’t you? You also hit on one when we went to the bar with Gilbert. But I’m surprised you didn’t have eyes for Antonio.”  
  
Arthur ignored him. Gilbert had already mentioned it and whoever this Antonio person was that he allegedly vomitted on after getting severely sloshed. Naturally, it wasn’t true. He was merely keen on finding out the identity of the man he met in China. He wasn’t planning to pursue the man romantically at all.  
  
“Why Beijing though? You should have used a romantic city instead—like Venice, Barcelona, Prague—or if you’re really desperate, Macau. But, of course, nothing beats Paris—”  
  
“I said shut it.”  
  
Silence reigned as they made their way home. Then Francis suddenly grabbed his wrist and pulled him to the opposite direction.  
  
“Wha—”  
  
“I need some coffee,” Francis said flatly.  
  
“Why the bloody hell would I go with you—”  
  
“You look like you need some tea too. I know a good place.”  
  
Francis picked out a café that had a great view of the Eiffel tower as it glittered in the night. Arthur had never thought it could be this beautiful, despite the fact that he’d seen it countless times already. As he looked at the famed landmark he thought that maybe Paris isn’t completely dreadful.  
  
Well, Arthur really did need good tea. That was the only reason why he let the frog lead him.  
  
Turns out, Francis knew nothing about good tea, to which he argued that he never claimed that the café served good tea in the first place.  
  
 _Wanker._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Rapture Day, everybody!


	19. Day 33

**_Day 33_ **

  
  
After an entire month of failing, Arthur gave up on trying to keep Francis out. His neighbour had somehow made sure to cover his tracks very well. Arthur, loathe as he was to admit it, still couldn't figure out how the bloody frog was able to get into his flat with virtually no trouble at all. He reluctantly surrendered.  
  
Francis was relieved that he didn’t have to go so early anymore. He removed the bolts from the cupboards to celebrate.  
  
“I thought you would never give up.”  
  
“Apparently your Frenchness rubbed off on me," he grumbled, chewing on his breakfast--croissant with decadent home-made raspberry jam, "It’s probably your horrid food.”  
  
“That’s funny; I seem to remember the British having an excellent talent for retreating back in Dunkirk. And if my food is horrid, yours does not even deserve to be in garbage.”  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
“Perish the thought! I have standards, you know.”  
  
Francis’ cheek was promptly acquainted with Arthur’s fist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, everyone!


	20. Day 38

_**Day 38** _

 

Giving up on trying to keep him out translated to Francis’ tiny French brain as being welcomed to have breakfast with Arthur whenever he didn’t have time to go back to his place and eat. No amount of English unpleasantness and violence could persuade him otherwise.  
  
 _Fuck._


	21. Day 39

**_Day 39_ **

 

Francis is a fast learner and has learnt how to effectively dodge English fists. Needless to say, this annoyed Arthur even more.


	22. Day 45

** _Day 45_ **

  
  
Arthur found another note from Francis.  


 

  
  
As quickly as he could, the outraged Brit tried his best to think of a witty retort. It annoyed him to no end that he could not think of anything he can make fun of about Francis’ physical appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! :D


	23. Day 48

_**Day 48** _

 

"...I think I may have actually short-circuited his brain--"

"Francis, all you've been talking about lately is your neighbour," Jeanne interrupted in the middle of his rant, a sheepish smile illuminating her sickly pallor on the screen. "Is there something I should know?"

Francis stared at the screen for a good few seconds, dumbstruck. She can't be implying that he--that he and--that they--

"Jeanne, all I told you was that he hasn't replied to my note yet," he said testily. "Aren't you overreacting?"

At this, she laughed. "Francis, you've kept me updated about everything," she said, giggling. "From his lack of gratitude, to his horrible cooking, to his terrible choice of a sofa that clashes with his curtains, to his sexuality, to his monstrously thick eyebrows--I feel like I know him already."

Francis opened his mouth to protest indignantly, but she beat him to it.

"As your adoptive sister, I would like to know my future brother-in-law," she said sweetly.

His jaw hung open in shock at her. "Non! How could you even-- _eugh_ \--please, Jeanne--!"

Jeanne laughed at him. "I don't see what's wrong with it! As long as he likes you back, I mean."

" _I_ don't like him at all!" Francis snapped. How many times does he have to explain this to people? "You're starting to sound like Gilbert!"

She shrugged. "He _is_ a doctor. Doctors are smart, aren't they?"

"I don't care if he's a chiropractor--"

" _Orthopaedic surgeon_ , Francis--"

"Meme chose," he retorted huffily. "The fact is, he knows absolutely nothing about matchmaking straight people, more so with gay people!"

"Is he still setting you up with Dr Beilschmidt?"

Francis sighed. "Yes. I told you he's bad at these things."

Jeanne pursed her lips in thought. "Dr Beilschmidt _is_ handsome. Which one looks better, Dr Beilschmidt or Mr Kirkland?"

He frowned at her. "Why are you so interested in this? I told you, I don't like him!"

She shrugged. "I do want to see you married, you know. You're not getting any younger."

He rolled his eyes at her. "Gay marriage isn't even allowed in France."

"Then go to Canada! Love will find a way, Francis."

He exhaled and closed his eyes, exasperated. This is ridiculous. How could anyone even entertain the notion of him being romantically link with that--that _thing_?

"I will pray the rosary for your happy marriage."

"Jeanne," he said, scowling.

She giggled. "Okay, I'm sorry, Francis, I'll stop now," she said sweetly before she succumbed to a coughing fit.

He opened his eyes and looked at his friend, concerned. "That cough is worrying me," he told her as soon as it subsided. She had caught the cold since last month.

"It's just the chemo," she said, waving at him while pointing at the badana covering her bald head. "My immune system is weaker, you know."

"I know," he said quietly. He wished she could turn back to alternative medicine, but seeing as how nothing seemed to be working, chemotherapy was their only hope of fighting her disease.

"Don't worry, Francis, I'll be fine," she said cheerfully. "I'm a strong girl! I've been taking a lot of vitamin Cs and eating a lot of fruits, so it's bound to go away soon."

Francis pursed his lips. He can't help but not join in her optimism. Jeanne had always been frail. He always worried about her. "Don't stress yourself out, all right?"

She nodded enthusiastically at him, before her head shot up, looking at some point beyond her screen. "Come in, papa!"

He heard the door open from Jeanne's end and some footsteps before Jeanne's dad's face came into view. "Good evening, Francis."

"Bonsoir, papa," Francis greeted the man with a smile.

"I'm sorry, but I need to tuck Jeanne in, Francis," he said, pointing at Jeanne.

Jeanne looked surprised. "Is it already time?"

"Oui, ma puce. It's ten o'clock," her dad said.

Francis smiled. "Good night, Jeanne. Good night, papa!"

"Good night, Francis!" they said in unison before they disconnected. Francis slumped back onto his bed and closed his laptop.

_Why hasn't he replied?_

Arthur never struck him as the type of person to back down from a fight that easily. He shrugged and got under the covers. Maybe he really did short circuit his brain. He fell asleep shortly after that.

 

 


	24. Day 49

**_Day 49_ **

  
A note was posted on Arthur’s chopping board.  
  



	25. Day 50

** _Day 50_ **   
  


  
  
Arthur seethed as he chewed on his croissant filled with Francis’ home-made jam. He decided, that since Francis opted to be childish, that he should act the mature role in which he will end the chain of these mundane notes by not writing back. Hopefully, Francis would not make a habit of this.


	26. Day 58

**_Day 58_ **

  
  
Arthur was wrong.  
  


  


  
  
He tacked the note he just wrote on one of his cupboards with a triumphant smile. He couldn’t resist it. He didn’t regret it at all.


	27. Day 65

**_ Day 65 _ **

 

Arthur never thought he’d be in such a situation ever. _Ever_.

“Rosbif, could you get some shallots, please?”

He had walked into him and ended up doing groceries with him. It should make sense, seeing as how Francis was now his personal cook. That didn’t mean he liked it one bit.

“What do you need them for? You already have onions!” he snapped, nudging the bag of green onions in the cart.

Francis just gave him a patronising look. “Surely you are joking.”

Arthur held his stare. He wasn’t going to lose to this frog.

“Oh mon dieu. You really don’t know the difference!” Francis laughed, and it took all of Arthur’s self-control to not run him over with the cart.

“Onions differ, rosbif,” Francis said snootily, leaning over and taking a shallot in his hand. Arthur stepped away so as not to be touched by his amphibious hands. “This little thing packs a lot of spice. The flavour is strong and the smell is very pungent. And these,” he said, gesturing to the bag of green onions, “are sweet to the taste and quite mild. One cannot substitute the other.”

“Why not? They’re the same thing!”

Francis sighed, exasperated. “Why do I even try to enlighten your dim brain?”

That struck a nerve. “Dim? You’re the one who’s dim! Who the hell gives a damn about the difference between onions? They’re just onions!”

Francis threw his hands up, walking over closer to the shallots and putting some in a bag. “And that’s why you can never be good at cooking.”

Arthur just stood there, seething in rage as Francis collected the damned tiny onions behind him. He wasn’t going to walk away, no. He wasn’t going to lose to the frog. He wasn’t going to look like the immature one here.

Francis put the bag gently beside the larger onions, clapping the dust off from his hands. “And now we’ll get some beef! Wouldn’t that be a treat for you, rosbif?”

Arthur just clenched his teeth and resisted the urge to punch the git.

The frog just continued to smirk at him. “Is there anything in particular you would like?”

“Look, maman, homos!”

They both looked to the direction of a little boy who was pointing at them with one hand while his other hand was picking at his nose.

Arthur growled at him, causing the child to squeak and run away crying.

“I swear that is the only advantage your caterpillars have.”

“What was that?” Arthur snarled at him.

“Nothing,” Francis answered flippantly. “Let’s get that beef, shall we?”

Unfortunately for Arthur, this kind of thing will happen more than once. But he doesn’t know that yet.


	28. Day 74

**_Day 74_ **

  
  
“Tell me, Arthur, are you lacking in funds?”  
  
Grunt. “What are you on about now?”  
  
Sip. “I certainly cannot fathom why you would keep wearing those fashion disasters you call vests. Hand-me-downs, I suppose?”  
  
Teacup bangs on the table. “These are a proud and noble English tradition and you damn well know it, frog.”  
  
“Ah like inedible food, tea, cynicism and vulgar words, I see. I didn’t really know much about the superior lack of taste the English had. Thank you for clarifying.”  
  
It is important to note, that when dealing with an Englishman early in the morning, and one happens to be French, that the English have always had good aim when it came to projectiles and that they don’t care if you happen to be wearing an expensive Dior suit.  
  
It is also important to note, the French do not appreciate it when you ruin their clothes and will not hesitate to express dissatisfaction in a rather violent manner involving your forehead and the table. Particularly if you are an Englishman.


	29. Day 79

**_Day 79_ **

  
When Arthur opened his door that evening, he certainly didn’t expect a fashionably dressed young man with brown hair and the warmest brown eyes to be there at his doorstep.  
  
“You are M Bonnefoy’s neighbour, yes?” he said with the biggest smile Arthur had seen in Paris. He had an accent, Italian, probably. The man leaned over to examine his face.  
  
“Y-Yes,” Arthur answered, feeling uncomfortable with the invasion of his personal space. “Is there something I can help you with?”  
  
The young man straightened up so abruptly as though he suddenly remembered what he was supposed to do. Arthur involuntarily took a step away from the man as his chin was almost hit. He offered his hand for Arthur to shake. “My name is Feliciano Vargas. I am Chef Bonnefoy’s commis.”  
  
“Arthur Kirkland.”  
  
When the Brit accepted his hand, the Italian shook it so enthusiastically that he thought his wrist would get dislocated. Once he was released, he held his wrist in reflex.  
  
“Yes, well, would you like to go in for some tea?”  
  
Feliciano paled, much to Arthur’s chagrin. He laughed weakly. “You are the man Chef Bonnefoy cooks breakfast for, si?”  
  
“Er…yes.” Did that bastard frog go around telling other people that?! He predicted that Francis’ chin was going to be introduced to his knee very soon.  
  
“Then no, that’s fine.”  
  
Arthur’s eye twitched. He would have slammed the door on the young man’s face if he had not been wearing such a wide warm smile.  
  
“I came here because I was knocking on Chef Bonnefoy’s door but he still isn’t probably back with Camille,” he said, wildly gesturing as he spoke. He paused and put his finger on his chin pensively. “Or was it Vanessa? No, that was last week. Antoinette? No, no, she was this Wednesday. Chef Bonnefoy goes out with too many women.” He looked up.  
  
“Do you know who he is with tonight?” he said, frowning and looking helpless.  
  
“Er…no.”  
  
Feliciano scratched the back of his head, his face scrunched as he was trying to remember the name of the harlot Francis decided to waste his night with.  
  
“I think it would be better if you came in,” Arthur said tiredly. “I insist.”  
  
The young man entered so cautiously as though he was being shown into a bloody Mafiosi’s house. Arthur closed the door behind him and started racking his brain on what to offer the Italian aside from tea. It was the proper thing to do.  
  
“How are you related to him again?”  
  
“He’s the Chef de partie and I’m his commis. You could say I’m kind of an apprentice.”  
  
The Italian laughed all of a sudden. “Chef was right! The sofa’s colours do not match the curtains.”  
  
He almost tripped. “Really now?” he asked, his lip twitching.  
  
The young man nodded enthusiastically. “Si. This is the wrong kind of blue. My brother would have torn the fabric off with his bare hands. He is a fashion designer, you know. In fact, Chef Bonnefoy knows him too because of Antonio. Oh and you should change that centrepiece. It goes bad with the coffee table.”  
  
 _Great._  Arthur just let in Francis’ excitable Italian clone. He felt a pang of humiliation when the young man unknowingly insulted the centrepiece he’d made himself. Was he also going to comment about everything else in the place? He immediately regretted letting him in.

“Oh! Here it is!”  
  
The Brit looked around and saw Feliciano holding up a set of keys with a fleur-de-lys key chain which he took from one of Arthur’s shelves. It definitely did not belong to him.  
  
“Chef has been looking for these since last week!” he said, pocketing the keys. “Collette was very upset!”  
  
Arthur scowled. What the hell was that frog doing leaving his whores’ keys in his loft?!  
  
“Or was it Amelia? I’m very bad with names and faces.”  
  
 _Good God, how many women does he keep?_  It wouldn’t be a surprise if the frog was already ridden with various sexually transmitted diseases. Arthur shuddered at the thought of his syphilitic fingers handling food.  
  
“Oh! I remember it now! It was Maria and Michelle! They were very upset when he lost the keys—”  
  
“Mr Vargas,” he finally cut in, feeling a migraine coming on. “Is there something you needed from me?”  
  
“Oh yes!” he said, brightening up. He took out a package and a bottle of wine from his pack and set them on his table. “These came for Chef Bonnefoy at the kitchen earlier. Could you give it to him?”  
  
Arthur scowled. He certainly didn’t want to go about doing that frog any favours.  
  
Feliciano’s face crumpled into a puppy-dog pout. “Please, Mr Araldo, sir. I still have to give these keys to the twins or else they won’t be able to use the flat Chef is renting to them in Lorraine next week.”  
  
Oh. It was for an empty apartment. He felt relieved all of a sudden.  
  
“It’s Arthur,” he said tiredly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He was thinking too much. “Fine, I’ll give it to him.”  
  
“Thank you very much Mr Aramis!” Feliciano turned on his heel and went for the door.  
  
“It’s Arthur,” he repeated, following him out.  
  
“Well then, good-bye, Mr Lesley!” the man said, waving as he left for the lift.  
  
“It’s Arthur!” He slammed the door and stomped back inside. He was about to go to bed and have a nap when the packages at the table caught his eye.  
  
He was curious. Besides, he wasn’t going to open them or anything. He picked up the wine bottle. Judging from the packaging alone, it looked terribly expensive and it was definitely Italian. It was definitely something Francis would have sent for. He put it down and picked up the other parcel. He shook it, trying to get a feel of what was inside but he couldn’t hear anything. It was probably something made of cloth. He read the sender’s name and address.  
  
 _Lorraine_. What could he have possibly ordered from there? The sender’s name was Jeanne Lapucelle.  
  
Arthur grimaced. Francis wouldn’t lead on this poor girl from the province with promises of love and some such nonsense that he didn’t intend to follow through…would he? He’d heard a lot of that going on.  
  
He took both the wine and the package and went to his room. He might as well give them to the frog tomorrow.


	30. Day 80

**_Day 80_ **   
  


Francis has a dog.  
  
Naturally, like all other men in the world, he was allowed to own a pet. It just came so unexpected because Arthur always thought that Francis was the type of person who was too snooty to actually like animals—or to a greater extent, keep them.  
  
“You have a dog,” he remarked, rather dumbly, when the Siberian husky peeked as Francis opened his door to Arthur.  
  
“You can identify animals. Good for you, Rosbif,” he said sarcastically, trying to keep the excitable dog in place.  
  
“You have a dog,” Arthur repeated. “And it’s not a poodle.”  
  
Francis raised an eyebrow at him and then scowled. “Yes, she is not. But I see a brute of an English bulldog in front of me, wasting my time with inane observations.”  
  
Arthur reddened indignantly.  
  
“What is it that you want?”  
  
Arthur jerkily brandished the package and the wine Feliciano brought him the day before, (which he’d almost tripped over earlier) almost hitting the Frenchman in the face.  
  
“This came for you yesterday,” he said, not looking at him as his red face turned to embarrassed coral.  
  
If Arthur hadn’t been too busy looking at everything besides Francis, he might’ve seen the other man blush for the first time since he’s met him. Sadly, he wasn’t really good at timing his embarrassment.  
  
“Thank you, Arthur,” he said in a sincere small voice as he took the package.  
  
“Right, whatever. I didn’t do this for you; I just didn’t like having random things in my flat.” He turned to leave.  
  
“Her name is Nada,” Francis blurted out all of a sudden. “I got her from a friend.”  
  
Arthur looked at him, lips curved into a smile. “I’m surprised it’s not named Pierre.”  
  
Francis paused to look at him incredulously. Then he laughed. “Eh? Why would I name her Pierre? She is female and my good friend Pierre would be upset.”  
  
Arthur laughed along with him.  
  
It was the first time they shared a laugh together. It felt so natural.  
  
Later that night, after being considerably disturbed by the event, they both decided separately that it never happened and that it should never be spoken of again.


	31. Day 82

_**Day 82** _

 

Francis flipped the blue and white scarf over his shoulder and smoldered at the screen the way a model would have. "It's fabulous, ma cherie!" The scarf wasn't expertly made. The stitches weren't as even as they should've been, but Francis appreciated it all the same, especially since Jeanne found the time and the energy to make it for him. She has been confined to the hospital as of late, for her regular chemotherapy session.

"I'm glad you like it," Jeanne gushed. "I saw the yarn and all I could think of was how it matches your eyes."

He batted his eyelashes at her mischievously. "Oh, ma puce, be careful there. You might fall in love with me."

Jeanne just laughed. "And what good would that do when you only have eyes for men?"

"Nobody is immune to my charms, Jeanne. I thought I already told you that," he said, flipping his hair back. "Especially not when I have this scarf."

She giggled. "Maybe this time M Kirkland won't be able to keep his hands off you?"

He rolled his eyes. "Then I shall make sure not to wear this in front of him," he said snootily.

She laughed. "Oh Francis!"

"Seriously, Jeanne!" he said, laughing as well.

Her laughter subsided. "I want to see his face. Don't you have a picture? You must have one."

"My dear, why would I have a picture?"

"Please? Please take a picture for me?" she said, giving him puppy dog eyes. "I can already somewhat picture him from the description but I want to really be able to know what he looks like."

"Jeanne," Francis groaned. Taking a picture wouldn't be so hard. It was the principle of the thing. He could have just shown her his facebook account, but the bastard's profile picture was a picture of Sherlock Holmes' Adventures book cover. _Ridiculous man_. Yet, he wasn't surprised at all about that when he first saw it.

"S'il te plait?" she pleaded, bringing her hands together as if she was praying.

He sighed, defeated. "Fine," he grumbled under his breath.

She squealed, clapping her hands together in excitement. "I'm so lucky today! I don't only get a picture of the enigmatic M Kirkland, I also get to talk to Pierre!"

"You got to talk to Pierre?" he asked, sour mood forgotten. Pierre Loiseau was their missionary friend living in China. Because of the Great Firewall and his busy schedule, they never got to talk. They were only reduced to the occassional email.

"But of course!" she said, smug.

"Oh, you lucky girl!" he said, biting his finger in fake jealousy. In truth, he had been emailing his good friend to call her from time to time to check on her. His calls had always been a source of good mood for her.

She giggled. "I'm sure he'll call you soon too, Francis! It's quite busy in China, you know. The government still isn't that warm towards Catholics."

"I know," he said with a smile. "I do hope he takes good care of himself."

"Oh he does. He's a grown man. Oh, and he said he saw the pictures you took in Iceland last year. He says they're hilarious!"

Francis grinned. "I am doing a good job of spreading his good looks, non?"

"Others would call it identity theft, Francis."

"Well, we're not like the others," he answered snootily. Besides, Pierre didn't mind it at all anyway.

Jeanne hummed thoughtfully. "Just be careful when you do that, okay?" She yawned. "I'm going to go to sleep now, Francis. Let's talk again tomorrow?"

"Of course, Jeanne. Bonne nuit!" Francis said with a smile.

"Bonne nuit!" she squeaked, sending him a flying kiss, before her window turned black and she disconnected.

Francis sighed and unravelled the scarf from his neck. He closed his eyes. How is he going to go about getting that picture without being noticed?

He really should stop getting himself in these situations.


	32. Day 83

**_Day 83_ **

 

Francis carefully opened the door to Arthur’s bedroom. How ridiculous could this man be, really? He double bolts his front door but he neglects to lock his bedroom door. _English common sense, perhaps_. Sometimes he truly wonders if there was anything about this man that would ever be close to making any semblance of sense.

 _Click_ , went the door softly. He gently eased the door open, cringing as the hinges whined a little. He could already hear the soft snores coming from within the bedroom. Carefully, he slid inside, mindful of not slipping on the floor with his slippery socks. He placed his palm on the wall to steady himself as he surveyed the room.

The sun had already gone up a bit so there was a little bit of light. The room wasn’t really all that different from his in terms of structure. No surprises there. What was different was the tall book case filled not only with books, but also an occasional flower vase. He raised a brow at that. So he wasn’t completely tasteless after all, but he was admittedly boring. Everything was well-organised, from his desk to his book case to his clothes on the chair. The only actual blemish in his room was Arthur himself. No matter how well-organised his room looked, Arthur slept like a drunkard—limbs strewn in every direction, his duvet almost only covering his lower legs and some haphazardly thrown pillows on the floor. He could have laughed, but he remembered that he had to be quiet.

Francis walked carefully towards the man, cold hands on his camera. _Just one picture_ , he told himself, feeling nervous for no reason. Being found in the kitchen made sense, but being found in Arthur’s bedroom with a _camera_ of all things—

 _One picture and I’ll be gone. He won’t even know what happened._ He licked his lips as his heart hammered in his chest. He should’ve just paid Yong-Soo to take the picture for him.

As soon as he was close enough, he raised the camera, willing his hands to steady. Arthur looked even more dishevelled in his sleep than he did awake. His snoring and the small pool of drool beside face might have added to the effect. It was disgusting. Truly it was. Yet for some reason, Francis found it a little charming.

He blinked at himself and lowered the camera, running a hand down his face. Charming was not a word to be used to describe Dr Arthur Kirkland unless it was a negative sentence. _I lack sleep. That’s all_ , he reassured himself, running his hand through his hair and looking at his victim. His brows creased at the dentist’s sleepwear.

 _Sex pistols_? Somehow, he’d pictured boring old Arthur to be someone who wore matching pyjama sets. He never did have the chance to see what clothes he slept in because he was always already dressed by the time he came out for breakfast. He briefly wondered if Arthur had some rock music articles hidden in his closet. A handful of piercings, leather pants—perhaps an electric guitar? He scratched his chin, eyes examining the rest of the man that wasn’t covered, until his eyes stopped at his hip. He squinted in the low lighting. Was that a tattoo—

Arthur shifted, groaning, and causing Francis to step back involuntarily and to almost fall on his arse in panic. The silly man, however, just turned over, now lying on his stomach and scratching his arse at that before falling back into deep sleep, snores resuming.

Francis released the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. _Merde_. He had the perfect opportunity to take a good picture and now the stubborn man had deprived him of it. He pursed his lips. He might as well get it done before the man buries his face in the pillow.

Licking his lips, he took a quick picture—or three of the sleeping man before his phone beeped rather loudly in the quiet room.

Francis’ hair stood on end as he watched Arthur groan, crinkle his nose and then go back to snoring. Cursing inside his head, he took out his phone and read the message. _Now who would text me this early in the—_

It was from an international number.

 

_Bonjour, dorogoy._

_-Vanya <3_

 

He just stood there, looking at the text. How long has it been since he last heard from him? He frowned. He put his phone back in his pocket and slipped out of the room unnoticed.

 

 


	33. Day 85

**_Day 85_ **

 

 

“The picture is blurred,” Jeanne said. “But I think I can make out the eyebrows quite well.”

“There wasn’t enough lighting,” he defended, as Nada nudged herself on his lap, yearning for his touch. He petted the dog’s head tenderly.

“Did you take this while he was asleep?”

“Yes,” Francis said, brows raised, as if challenging his childhood friend.

“Do you always see him while he’s asleep?”

He frowned at the implied meaning behind it. “Non. I took the opportunity to take a picture while he was otherwise incapacitated.”

“And you have access to his room,” Jeanne teased.

“Only because he forgot to lock it,” he rebutted. Nada licked his palm.

She giggled.

Francis sighed, exasperated.

“You’re blushing!”

“Excuse me?” he said, outraged.

“Oh my god,” she said, giggling and reclining back into the hospital pillows.

“Jeanne,” he said, frowning.

She just put a hand to her mouth, unable to stop her giggling. As much as he liked seeing her so bubbly about something, especially right now when she was still confined in a hospital, he simply didn’t like being made fun of. With Arthur no less.

“I’m s-s-sorry,” she giggled. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. “It’s just that it’s been so long since I’ve last seen you flustered.”

“I’m not flustered!” he exclaimed.

“Did he look cute when he was asleep?”

Francis crossed his arms and reclined in his seat, earning a whine from Nada. He sulked, looking away from his childhood friend.

“At least admit that one,” Jeanne said with a big grin on her face.

He glanced at her and shifted in his seat, seeing Nada trot away back into her corner of the room after realising that her owner was too distracted. “Non.”

“Handsome then?” she prodded.

He made a face and Jeanne laughed some more.

“There’s no need to worry, Francis. It’s just me. No one else will ever know, I promise.”

Francis just continued to glare at the stack of cookbooks beside his laptop for a few minutes before he said, “Maybe a little charming. Just a little tiny bit. Maybe.”

Jeanne squealed.

“I said _maybe_!” Francis exclaimed. “It was just a lapse of judgment, nothing more.”

“ _Y'a quelque chose~~_ ” she started singing, “ _dans son regard~~~_ ”

 _Beauty and the Beast, how appropriate_. “Jeanne, please—”

“ _D'un peu fragile et de léger comme un espoir~~_ ” she sang a little louder.

“J—”

“— _Toi mon ami aux yeux de soie~~_ ”

“—this is not fu—”

“ _Tu as souris mais hier encore je ne savais pas~~_ ”

“Jeanne!” Francis whined, scowling.

For all his whining, Jeanne just burst into a fit of giggles. “ _Y'a quelque chose qu' hier encore n'existait pas~~_ ”

Francis turned away from her and was really sulking now.

“Oh don’t be such a spoilsport, Francis!” she said, clearly having a lot of fun at his expense. “I’m just giddy is all.”

“I can see that,” he said, tone hurt.

“I’m sorry, it just makes me so happy,” she said, leaning over excitedly. “Especially since I’ve received these.”

Francis looked at the screen, seeing her motion to a bunch of sunflowers on her bedside table.

“Ivan sent them to me this morning.”

He worked his jaw, uneasy, then took a glance at Nada. Why was Ivan making his presence known lately? “Was there a note?”

“Just a get well soon card,” she said, shrugging.

“I see.”

“He hasn’t been contacting you again, has he?”

Francis clamped his mouth shut. Jeanne didn’t need to know. “No. No. I think he just genuinely meant to wish you the best, ma chere.”

She nodded, satisfied. “If he’s behaving, then I have nothing to worry about,” she said, back in her good spirits.

He nodded back.

“Now let’s talk about the charming M Kirkland,” she teased again.

“ _Jeanne_.”

 


	34. Day 90

**_Day 90_ **

 

“Kérastase? Really?"

Francis merely cocked a brow at him. “Is there a problem?”

“It’s too fucking expensive, that’s what!”

“Beauty has its price, Rosbif,” Francis sneered, dropping the bottle in his own basket. “I can’t go looking like trash when I work at a five-star hotel.”

Arthur frowned at him. The fop was a fucking _chef_. He wasn’t someone who met with clientele. “How many people even see you or your stupid hair at work anyway?”

“I could ask _you_ the same question,” Francis said, looking at him haughtily, before laughing to himself and brushing right past him.

Arthur merely stood there in the middle of the aisle, trying to burn holes into his neighbour’s back with his glare.


	35. Day 95

**_Day 95_ **

  
After being called on about how stupid-looking his scarf was and how whoever made it must have been blind, Francis has proven to himself that indeed, the English are good at flying. They also smack beautifully against a wall.  
  
Fortunately, Arthur didn’t sustain injuries that required Gilbert’s help.

 

 


	36. Day 112

**_Day 112_ **   
  


Francis is exceptionally talented with knives and he does not, in fact, appreciate help in the kitchen—or to be more specific, Arthur’s.

 

 

 


	37. Day 133

**_Day 132_ **

 

_He rounded the corner and stopped, finally seeing that maiden, probably on her way back to her quarters. She wasn’t an exceptional girl by any means. She had a perfectly average body and a perfectly average face. There was nothing special about her at all. France had already forgotten her name, in fact. Yet, how could she have fooled everyone into thinking she was a holy knight sent by God?_

_“Attends!” he shouted, making her stop to look at him._

_He walked over to her in the most dignified way his fourteen year old body can. It didn’t help that the silly girl was taller than him._

_“Is there anything I can help you with?” she asked him._

_He looked at her, this maiden—God’s final joke on him in this ridiculous war—feeling angry and pitying at the same time. This **child** had by some miracle convinced his courts and the dauphin that she really was a virgin—as if that was enough proof to validate her joining his army and hand him his final humiliation in this long and stupid war against England. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve this. Why doesn’t God punish England the same way? “Who sent you?”_

_The girl had the audacity to look confused. “God did, my good—”_

_“Don’t make fun of me!” he snapped at her. “You’re nothing but an ignorant maiden! Do you know what those English barbarians will do to you in the battlefield? They’ll rape you and then tear you to pieces without any effort at all and God isn’t going to be there—”_

_He has to admit, he shouldn’t have been surprised at the hand that whipped him across the cheek, and yet he was. The said ignorant maiden, to her credit, looked like she was trying to control her anger._

_“God, forgive this boy,” she muttered under her breath, her right hand quivering a little. She then closed her eyes and then took a deep breath. “There is no need to be worried. God has sent me to do His will. I shall hand France back to the rightful king.”_

_“Are you listening to yourself?” he asked, outraged. “You’re insane! You have no experience fighting or even holding a sword!”_

_To that, she smiled, which irritated him more. “God shall be my weapon. He shall guide my hand and I shall fulfil my duty.”_

_“A woman’s duty,” France said, grinding his teeth, “is to bear sons for her country.”_

_She looked at him strangely. “It is my duty as God’s child to do His will. I shall not fail him, nor my country.”_

_France fumed. Why can’t this girl see his point? She was already failing him by joining. He was going to be the laughing stock of Europe. “Do you really think the soldiers will just let you in? An ordinary girl like you won’t last a day!” At worst, they would probably rape her themselves before she even saw an English soldier. “You don’t have a divine destiny. Do yourself and France a favour, and stop this madness!”_

_She blinked at him first and then smiled. “The Holy Mother was herself an ordinary girl burdened with a grand purpose,” she said rather sagely for a girl so young. “I know it shall be difficult, and I am ready to face all the hurdles.”_

_France was about to retort again, but he stopped when she held his chin gently between her fingers, levelling their gazes. Even her large cerulean eyes were ordinary. “Thank you for worrying about me. God bless you.” She leaned in, embraced him, and gave his cheek a chaste kiss. She then looked back at him, eyes alight with blue fire. “My great love for my God and my country will pull me through. God has blessed me with this task. There is nothing I shall want.”_

_She let go of him, turned, and left, leaving him to stand there, seething with a furious blush in his cheeks._

_That silly girl was definitely going to die young._

 

The phone ringing broke into his consciousness. He opened his eyes with great difficulty and looked at the clock beside him. It flashed 2:34 AM in angry red, too early for someone to be awake and yet the phone had the audacity to continue ringing.

He turned back to his ceiling, blinking sleepily. Whoever was calling, he probably dialled a wrong number. A distraught lover drunkenly trying to dial up an ex and had dialled him up instead—that must be it, surely.

Apparently, the dialler however, seemed to be keen on waiting for him to answer it. With a groan, he got up from bed and went over to his desk.

Francis rubbed his eyes awake as he picked up the phone. “Allo?”

There was silence on the other line, before there was a sharp gasp of someone who sounded like they were crying.

Francis’ eyes widened in alarm, finally awake. He clutched the phone with both hands. “Allo? Who is this?”

The person on the other line whimpered. “F-Francis…” a man’s voice on the other line sobbed.

 

 

** _7:16 AM_ **

  
  
Francis didn’t make him breakfast. There was no sign that he was even in there either.  
  
Maybe Francis just didn’t wake up early today? Or perhaps he was sick. Or he probably went on strike after finally realizing that Arthur was sort of mistreating him—which he fully deserved, of course.  
  
Arthur shrugged it off and decided to cook for himself, expecting Francis to burst through the door any minute and go into hysterics.

Cooking a light breakfast took him a full thirty minutes, somehow cooking much slower than he used to--but that was obviously because he hasn't been doing it for a while and was no longer used to it. Obviously.

Obviously.

He had already finished cooking and no Frenchman came.  
  
Somehow, his cooking didn’t taste as good as it used to either—perhaps because he has been exposed to too much French cooking. And because he wasn't used to cooking that much anymore. Yes. That was it. After all, how else could he possibly think right now that he overcooked a simple sunny-side up egg when that was the way he always made it before Francis came barging into his life? He simply got used to his watery weak French sunny-side ups, that's all. His version was still obviously better than the frog's.  _The nerve of that frog, damaging my palate like that_.  
  
Arthur bit his lip. Somehow, he wasn’t as pleased as he thought he would be when this day came.  
  
Something fluttered behind Arthur. He turned around, fully intending to yell at Francis, but saw that it was only the curtain fluttering with the morning breeze. He went over to the windows and shut them at once.  
  
Since when had he started to think of Francis as a fixture in his home every morning?


	38. Day 136

_**Day 136** _

 

Francis still hasn’t come over. He didn’t see him since he’d stop coming over. That morning, he’d tried to knock on Francis’ door to see if he was doing well, but his pride got the better of him.

 

 

 


	39. Day 137

** _Day 137_ **

 

Francis sat in front of Jeanne’s coffin, feeling small and cold despite Gilbert’s jacket around his shoulders. It was a complication, they said. Something about her body breaking out into a very high fever and being too weak from the chemo to recover. Francis knew that was pure bullshit. He knew Jeanne. Jeanne wouldn’t die that easily. Her lord killed her. God left her to die.

Francis’ fingernails dug into his forearms as he heard the old ladies of the neighbourhood cry and pray the rosary for the repose of her soul. Lots of people had come, mostly from the local hospital, both to pay respects and to pray for her.

_What’s the point? What’s the point of praying when she’s already gone?_

He felt something warm press against his hand. He looked up and saw an exhausted Gilbert pressing a mug of hot chocolate against him. “Drink something. You look like shit.” 

Francis turned away. He probably did. He hasn’t slept at all in three days. “I don’t want anything.”

Gilbert sighed, frustrated, and then sat down beside him. Francis felt a little guilty; after all, he called him up at 2:30 in the morning to get him to take Nada from his apartment while he was to dash off to Lorraine. Being the best friend that he was, he’d delegated that job to Ludwig and accompanied him all the way to Lorraine after realising how much of a mess Francis had been at the time.

Francis touched Gilbert’s hand, surprising his friend. “Thank you,” he muttered in a small scratchy voice. “Thank you. F-For being here.”

To his equal surprise, Gilbert clutched his hand tightly. “Don’t worry about it,” he said sincerely. “She’s my friend too.”

Francis broke into a watery smile, embraced Gilbert and cried onto his shoulder.

_How could you take her away? Why?_

“Toni said Pierre’s going to come over. They got in touch.” 

Francis nodded, holding onto him tighter.

Gilbert patted his back awkwardly. “Pull yourself together, man,” he muttered gently. “You’ll be okay.”

Francis nodded, finally releasing Gilbert and wiping at his face.

Charles, Jeanne’s father approached them, looking just as tired as Gilbert was. Francis knew that out of all of them, surely, he was the most devastated. The man had nobody but Jeanne his whole life, and now she was gone—taken away just like that. Francis swallowed. This man—this good saintly man—Francis’ saviour—had been stripped off of his family the way Francis had been when he was much younger. _How could God be so cruel?_

Gilbert stood up and patted his adoptive father’s back comfortingly. The old man gave him a tired smile before looking back at Francis.

“Francis, get some sleep.”

He shook his head. “I’m fine,” he answered, voice just as scratchy. 

“You haven’t slept for days,” the old man prodded, taking Gilbert’s seat. 

“I’m fine,” he repeated, turning his attention back to Jeanne’s coffin. He fidgeted before looking back at the old man in earnest. “Papa, come back to Paris with me.”

The old man’s eyes widened for a moment before softening back to a tired smile. “I can’t, Francis.”

At this, Francis panicked. He held the old man’s hands in his. “Why not? There’s nothing left for you here, Papa. I’ll take care of you, I promise!” 

The man shook his head. “You must live your own life,” he said softly. “I’ve already made my decision years before. I plan to join Pierre in his missionary work.”

“Papa!” Francis cried, feeling his heart ache. _Everybody’s leaving me_.

“It was a promise I had made with God many years ago,” Charles told him, patting his hand gently. “When Jeanne was barely a year old and diagnosed with cancer.” He reached out and stroked Francis’ hair, eyes watering. “God is good, Francis. He let me keep my daughter for twenty seven wonderful years, and I am nothing but thankful.”

Francis broke into tears in his father’s embrace.

“God is good, Francis,” the man sobbed as he held onto Francis. “God is good.”


	40. Day 140

**_Day 140_ **

  
Arthur mentally berated himself for randomly asking a black haired man who happened to be his patient if he had ever been to China as he examined the man’s panoramic x-ray. It had been on impulse. At least this time, the man had thought he was merely making conversation. He had been there, but not the same time as Arthur was.  
  
He couldn’t help it; he was curious. What were the odds that he might meet that man again in Paris? He did tell him to go there. Still, he didn’t feel that well about asking that of his patient. It made him uncomfortable somehow.  
  
Arthur didn’t feel particularly jolly in the first place. It had been seven days since He last saw Francis—not that he was counting or anything. No, he didn’t try asking about him, even if he wanted to. He didn’t need to be misinterpreted again and he was sure that the misinterpretations would reach the frog.  
  
He clutched his coat tighter to his body as a drizzle started to pour. Why should he be bothered? All that frog ever did was insult him and his cooking, trespass in his loft and be generally French. He shouldn’t be bothered. That’s right; he shouldn’t be.  
  
Still, he couldn’t help but feel that he’d done something horribly wrong to make Francis hate him. He felt inexplicably guilty.  
  
Wait—they  _already hate_  each other. Arthur slammed his palm against his forehead.  
  
“Get it together, old bean,” he muttered to himself.  
  
Who cares about that god damned frog? He can go die in a bloody car accident for all Arthur cared.  
  
His phone rang. Arthur hastily took it out of his pocket, thinking it was Francis and was a little disappointed that it was Gilbert instead.  
  
Wait, disappointed? No, he was relieved. He was more relieved than he could ever be. Besides, Francis doesn’t have his number.  
  
“What do you want?”  
  
“Let’s go out! Berwald said he’d treat us to drinks tonight.”  
  
Arthur’s eyebrows rose. Well, he did need a drink. His eyes wandered at his surroundings before it stopped on a blond man staring into nothingness, sitting alone on the lip of a fountain. The man looked strangely familiar.  
  
 _Francis?_  
  
“Arthur? Are you still there?”  
  
“Y-Yes, I’m here,” he said, craning his neck, trying to see if it really was Francis. “I’m sorry, I can’t go. I have something important to do.”  
  
“But Arth—”  
  
Arthur quickly ended the call and made a beeline for the man. He stopped just a few steps short.  
  
It was Francis.   
  
“Frog? Is that you?”  
  
Francis didn’t reply. He didn’t even notice him.  
  
Arthur prodded him a bit on the shoulder.  
  
Francis looked up, as if he’d just woken up from a dream. “Oh. It’s you. Arthur.” His expression was blank.  
  
Arthur noticed that the man didn’t use the nickname he’d bestowed upon him. He couldn’t help it. He started scolding like a mother hen. “Where the fuck have you been all week? You leave notes everywhere in my home to tell me about my eyebrows and my cooking but you couldn’t even leave a note to say where the hell you were? What are you, some kind of a ghost?”  
  
“I was…in Lorraine.”  
  
“And what, pray tell, were you doing there?” he asked, crossing his arms, scowl on his face.

Francis's hand covered his eyes and he began to sob. “Jeanne—Jeanne, my best friend. S-She died. I went to her funeral.”  
  
Arthur was taken aback by the sudden show of emotion. Jeanne—he remembered, she was the one who sent a package to Francis—the one that Vargas lad delivered to Arthur.  
  
He sat down beside Francis and pulled his head on his shoulder, his arms embracing the man. He rubbed comforting circles on the man’s back as Francis cried.  
  
“There, there,” Arthur said, rather awkwardly, as his coat was starting to get wet from Francis’ tears. What the hell was he doing? “Let’s go back home; you’ll catch a cold in this dreadful weather.”  
  
Jeanne, apparently, was Francis’ childhood friend. They had been friends since they were four. The girl’s family took him in after his house burned down in Lorraine—killing his parents. Jeanne always had a frail body and therefore had to stay at home for most of her life. Francis had always kept her company and would always write to her when he transferred to Paris.  
  
In a way, Francis treated her like a younger sister and Jeanne treated him like a big brother. The package that Feliciano delivered to Arthur days ago turned out to be a scarf especially made for him. It was that one he had been wearing when he threw Arthur against the wall.  
  
He somehow felt a lot worse.

But Francis hadn't been alone when he was in Lorraine. Apparently, the reason for Gilbert's mysterious disappearance this week was because he'd gone with Francis, but came back a little earlier.  
  
After shedding his coat, Francis collapsed on the bed, curling up in himself and sobbing.  
  
He didn’t know what to do. “Would you like a cup of tea?”  
  
Francis shook his head.  
  
Arthur rubbed the back of his neck uneasily. “W-Well then, I’d best be going,” he said, turning around. He was stopped by someone grabbing the sleeve of his coat.  
  
“Arthur,” Francis said in between hiccups. “Please don’t leave.”  
  
On an ordinary day, Arthur would have flipped him the bird and walked out, but the sheer sadness in his face and the desperation in his voice mellowed him a little.  
  
“All right.”


	41. Day 141

**_Day 141_ **

The knocking at the front door jolted Arthur awake. He stretched and yawned, silently cursing whoever it was that woke him up.  
  
He stood up and walked towards the door, bumping his knee against the coffee table and cursing.  
  
He yawned once more for good measure before he opened the door.  
  
“Guten Mor—” Gilbert stopped upon seeing a sleepy Arthur at the door. Nada sat beside him, wagging her tail. He chuckled, embarrassed. “Oh wow sorry about that, Art. I thought this was Francis’ pla—”  
  
Arthur slammed the door at him and grumbled about Germans waking up too early and disturbing other people.  
  
The knocking on the door returned, this time more frantic.  
  
Arthur wrenched open the door. “WHAT?!” he growled.  
  
Gilbert looked at him with narrowed eyes. “What are you doing at Francis’?”  
  
Arthur looked at him incredulously and was about to remark about Gilbert going completely bonkers but the words stopped at his throat. His eyes widened. He reluctantly looked back behind him. There were furniture that clearly weren’t his. In fact, the whole place looked nothing like his flat.  
  
Despite himself, his entire face reddened.  
  
Gilbert laughed and roughly patted Arthur’s shoulder and let Nada inside Francis’ apartment. “So this is the important thing you had to do. Oh man, I didn’t think you guys were actually together! Wait ‘til I tell Antonio and the lab about this.”

He immediately ran before Arthur could catch him.  
  
 _Bloody buggering bollocks._  
  
The angry Brit slammed the door and went back to the room, fully intending to shout at Francis until he saw the man hugging Nada as he sobbed in her fur. Arthur deflated instantly.  
  
He watched as the dog was having more success at comforting Francis than he did. Within minutes, Francis’ tears had stopped and he was merely petting the dog.  
  
“You should get changed,” Arthur said, breaking the peace that had settled between Francis and Nada. “Let’s go out for some hot chocolate. I’ll come back for you.”  
  
With that, he turned and left—completely missing the bewildered look on Francis’ face.

They had breakfast at a bakery nearby and settled on sitting outside to catch the rays of the sun. Nada rested her head contentedly on Francis’ foot.  
  
Arthur came back to the table with the bread and some coffee.  
  
“You used that Beijing pick-up line again, didn’t you?” Francis asked out of the blue.  
  
He blushed. He’d been watching when Arthur tried to ask one of the customers inside. “I-It’s none of your business, frog.”  
  
Francis chuckled sadly. “I told you it would never work.” He took a bite out of the bread.  
  
Silence fell between them as they ate breakfast.  
  
“Even in death, she was still radiant.”  
  
“When did she…”  
  
“May 30. The doctors already said that it was inevitable but I still wasn’t prepared for it.”  
  
Arthur put down his coffee. “I don’t think anyone would be truly ready for a loved-one’s death.”  
  
Francis smiled at him, his eyes tired and sad. “Thank you, Arthur.”  
  
The Brit looked away. “I-It’s nothing.” Then he added, “I’m sure she’s in a better place.”  
  
“That’s what Pierre told me as well. Jeanne was a pious Catholic.” He fiddled with his cup. “I just—I wish I could have been there during her final moments. She has always been there for me.”  
  
Arthur touched his hand and Francis looked up at him in surprise. “I’m sure she understands,” he said kindly. “You’ve had good times together, didn’t you?”  
  
Francis nodded.  
  
“Then it’s all good.”  
  
The Frenchman smiled, his eyes welling up with tears. He clutched the other’s hand in his.  
  
“Thank you, Arthur.”


	42. Day 144

**_Day 144_ **

 

Arthur gagged on his French toast, spitting out the too salty morsel he had in his mouth. He went to the sink to wash his mouth out. That was the second time Francis had messed up breakfast ever since he came back from Lorraine. On normal circumstances, Arthur would have taken this opportunity to make fun of Francis, but as it is, he didn’t even have the heart to tell him that he’d been messing up pretty badly as of late.

_Hopefully he doesn’t do this at the hotel or he’ll be fired._

He sighed. He really should get the frog to take a break for a while and collect himself. Then again the man had started being a recluse ever since he’d gone back from his trip. He barely went out or talked to anybody. All in all, he seemed very exhausted. Making him take a break might turn him into a full-time hermit.

He exhaled again and looked at the trashcan. There were a few burnt pieces of French toast in it—obviously from Francis’ mishap this morning while Arthur was still asleep.

His eye twitched. He really should get him to stop making him breakfast for a while.

 


	43. Day 146

** _Day 146_ **

 

  
“How is Francis?”

Arthur looked at Mrs Edelstein, Gilbert’s childhood friend, curiously as he put down his periodontal probe and began removing his latex gloves. “He’s…fine. You know him?”

“I do,” she said quietly. “I heard that Jeanne died. Ivan was devastated, but he couldn’t leave for Lorraine with him.”

“Ivan?”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “You don’t know Ivan?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Ivan is Francis’ ex boyfriend.”

Arthur’s jaw dropped, but he quickly recovered. Of course Francis had former lovers. It would be strange if he didn’t. It's just that he thought Francis was straight.

“I met Francis through Ivan, when I was studying him for a story I was writing.” She paused and studied him. “Do you want to know how they broke up?”

“I don’t think that’s som—” 

“It was tragic,” she said dramatically, falling back into the chair, the back of her hand on her forehead. “A tragic story of love unrequited.”

Arthur looked at her helplessly. It was against his gentlemanly sensibilities to kick her out, even if it was equally inappropriate to listen to whatever it was she had to say.

But he was intrigued.

“To Ivan, it had been love at first sight,” she continued, not bothering with Arthur’s subtle discomfort. “He had first seen Francis in their Paris tour. Francis is a lover of the arts, and therefore went to watch Ivan’s performance.”

“He’s an actor?”

“A danseur.”

“Oh.”

“Ivan burned for him with a passion. Unfortunately, it had not been the same for Francis. But Ivan was not deterred. He swore in the name of love, that he would ensnare Francis’ heart and make him his.”

Arthur’s eye twitched as he watched her squeal in giddiness. What a strange woman.

“Francis decided to give him a chance. They dated. Ivan opened his world to Francis and vice versa. Ivan always made an effort to go to Paris as much as he could, but it eventually took a toll on his career. Francis, after realizing that he never will love Ivan the same way, decided to let him go, so that he may at least fully pursue his other true love.”

Mrs Edelstein sighed blissfully. Arthur looked at her, not really knowing what to say.

“Ivan, saddened by Francis’ decision, gave him a gift, with the hope that Francis might change his mind someday—or at least think of him.”

“And that gift was…?”

“Nada, Francis’ dog. He’s still keeping her, isn’t he?” she asked excitedly.

“Yes,” he said, wondering why in the world his face suddenly felt so heavy.

Mrs Edelstein squealed.

Arthur crossed his arms. He had other patients waiting. “So is there any particular reason as to why you’re sharing this?”

She looked at him incredulously. “You don’t have to hide it from me.”

“Hide what?”

“I’ve come to understand that you and Francis are…intimate,” she said coyly.

It took all of Arthur’s willpower not to burst in outrage. He massaged the bridge of his nose. “It’s not true. Is Gilbert the one who told you about this?”

“No.”

He looked at her and she looked back at him. She wasn’t lying. If it wasn’t Gilbert, then who would be spreading this…this _slander_  against him?

“Who told you such a ridiculous thing?”

She clucked her tongue and waved a finger at him. “Dr Kirkland…a writer never reveals her secret informants.” She got up.   
“Well, doctor, I won’t be troubling you any further today. I think I should go visit Francis.”

“Of course, Mrs Edelstein,” he said tiredly as he led her out.

“Please, call me Eliza,” she said, smiling at him and shaking his hand. With that, she left.

“She didn’t give you a hard time, did she?”

 Arthur jumped in surprise and turned to see Gilbert. “You wanker, you gave me a fright!”  
  
He laughed. Arthur glared at him.  
  
“What?”  
  
“She told me about Francis’ past love life.”  
  
Gilbert facepalmed in annoyance. “Ach Gott, I told her not to tell you about Lud.”  
  
“Ludwig?”  
  
He peeked from between his fingers. “She…didn’t tell you about Lud?”  
  
“She didn’t mention him. What about Ludwig?”  
  
He laughed uneasily. “Hey since you didn’t hear anything about Lud, let’s drop the subject, huh?”  
  
Arthur smirked at him. He was finally going to get payback at Gilbert for all the rumours he’d started. “How about let’s continue instead?”  
  
“Continue what? Nothing’s to be continued—”  
  
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll ask Ludwig myself.”  
  
Gilbert blanched. “You didn’t hear anything from me, got it?”  
  
“Fine. Out with it then.”  
  
He looked around for good measure. “He and Francis used to date,” he said in a small voice so quickly that Arthur almost didn’t catch it.  
  
The Englishman laughed. “That’s ridiculous! Ludwig would never—”  
  
“Keep your voice down!” Gilbert hissed nervously. “They met when Francis’ friend from out of town had a bone scan, all right?”  
  
It must have been Jeanne. “You’re serious.”  
  
“Of course I am.” Gilbert looked around again. “You didn’t hear this from me.”  
  
Arthur gawked at him.  
  
“Lud isn’t always cooped up in radiology all the time, you know. Plus Francis is a great flirt. They didn’t go beyond dating though.”  
  
“But—what—I—what—”  
  
“They’re still good friends. Francis asks him to take care of Nada for him and Lud is always happy to take her.”  
  
“But—”  
  
A heavy hand descended on Arthur’s shoulder and he yelped.  
  
“Your next patient is waiting,” said Berwald, pointing his head towards Arthur’s office.  
  
“O-Of course,” he said, flushing, and going back into his office. He saw Berwald’s disapproving look directed towards a cowering Gilbert.


	44. Day 149

**_Day 149_ **

Francis deposited his wet umbrella at the counter and walked inside the small grocery. He was on his way home when he decided to pick up some fruits. He always loved this quaint little shop. They didn’t have the cheapest nor the freshest fruits in all of Paris, but it was on the way to his apartment building and the quality was good enough. Ever since he came back, he’d been going to either this little grocery, the little bookshop across the hotel, or the park on the way home, every night to pass the time.

He took in the scent, instantly calming down. Shopping always helped him unwind. It always helped him forget about the rest of the world.

He went over to the bushels of berries on his right, running his hands along the fruits. He took a handful of raspberries and studied their colour. They were ripe enough. Perfect for jams.

 _Jeanne will definitely—_ His eyes widened, stopping at the thought.

The raspberries dropped from his hand and back to the basket. Tears fell from his eyes before he could stop himself. He suddenly found it harder to breathe, feeling as if the world was closing in on him.

 _Jeanne._ He felt his throat close up. He tried his hardest to breathe.

_Come back, please._

He quickly turned on his heel and blindly strode out of the little store and into the heavy rain.

 

Arthur blinked up at the ceiling, wondering what had just happened and why he was sprawled on the floor, back wet. He’d just come home from work and was on the way to his apartment when he slipped and fell.

He carefully sat up, wincing at the pain. His backside was definitely going to bruise. He looked at the floor, where he saw a shallow puddle leading up to Francis’ apartment.

 _That bloody frog_.

He angrily stood up and strode towards the door, banging his fist against it. “Frog!” he snarled.

The door opened. Arthur was preparing to shout at him in full power but stopped in his tracks when he saw the state of his neighbour. Francis was completely wet. His clothes were soaking and he was shivering a little bit. His eyes were bloodshot and his nose was red.

“Good evening, Rosbif,” he greeted him quietly with a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Arthur’s brows met in concern. “Did something happen?”

“I lost my umbrella somewhere,” he replied quietly and a little monotonously before sneezing into his hand. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand and then noticed the puddle behind Arthur. “I’m sorry about the water. I’ll clean it up immediately.”

Arthur frowned at him. Against what he would normally do, he reached up and placed his palm against Francis’ forehead, feeling his temperature. He couldn’t help it; he was a doctor.

“You have a fever,” he said flatly and a little accusatorily as his hand fell back to his side. It was just a slight fever, but still.

Francis felt his own forehead, trying to confirm it.

“Go take a warm bath,” Arthur said softly. “I’ll clean this up myself.”

“But—”

“Get out of those wet clothes before it gets worse,” he ordered him firmly, barely stopping himself from calling the grieving man an idiot.

Francis’ shoulders relaxed and then he nodded, before he closed the door.

Arthur looked back at the puddle and pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d better clean it up before somebody else falls.


	45. Day 150

_Day 150_

 

Francis stared into space as he sat on his bed, back rested against his pillows. He couldn’t sleep, and he was exhausted. He didn’t come in to work today, at Arthur’s vehement insistence this morning when he broke in to make the grumpy dentist his breakfast. Despite having taken a warm bath the previous night, his fever had taken a turn for the worse. His tossing and turning the entire night could have contributed to it as well. And perhaps the fact that he also barely ate the day before. He hadn’t been eating well, to be honest. 

He rubbed at his arm. Francis was never one to get sick. Living with the Lapucelles made him wary of sickness and he always took care of himself. Part of the reason why he had so many friends at the hospital was because he was kind of a hypochondriac. Now that he was sick, he really didn’t know what to do with himself. 

He was about to settle back down onto his bed in a futile attempt to get some sleep when his phone rang. Slowly, he got out from bed and went to his desk. He sat down on his chair and cradled the phone against his ear.

“Allo?”

“Francis!” he heard Mr Lapucelle’s grainy voice on the other line. “At last! What happened to you?”

“Papa?” he asked groggily. He didn’t realize how much he missed his father.

“Are you all right? Are you sick? Do you need me to—”

“I’m fine, papa,” he insisted before the man went into hysterics. “I just got a little wet from the rain. I will be fine, don’t worry.”

“How could I not worry? You haven’t been answering any of my emails!”

Francis blinked at that. Well. He hadn’t touched his laptop ever since Jeanne died. He hadn’t touched his mobile much either, or stayed home that much after work. Part of the reason was that he usually chatted with Jeanne in the evenings and now…

And now.

“Are you sure you’re all right? I can come back home.”

“N-Non, papa. I am all right, I assure you,” he answered, trying to calm himself. “I’m fine.”

The man on the other line sighed. “I’m sorry Francis,” he said tiredly, but kindly. “I had been so wrapped up with Jeanne’s funeral and fulfilling my promise that I had neglected you.”

Francis smiled, eyes going glassy and nose feeling a little clogged. “I’m all right, papa.”

“No, you’re not. Are your friends there? Is Gilbert there? Is anyone taking care of you?”

“Not right now, he has work,” Francis answered, leaning on the table. “I—my neighbour has been kind enough to check on me from time to time.”

“Which neighbour? Mr Churchland?”

Francis’ brows jumped in surprise. He never actually talked about Arthur with him. “Dr. Kirkland, Papa. How did you know about him?”

“Jeanne told me.”

He smiled a little, before his face crumpled as he tried to prevent himself from crying. “I see.”

“I’m glad you have him then. Do not hesitate to tell me if you need me back home. I will be on the first plane back to France.”

“Non,” he said, voice shaking a little. “I promise, I will tell you, papa.”

“Good,” the man said, although he still seemed unsatisfied. “How has your work been so far?”

He’d been messing up on most of the recipes and Feliciano had been manning his station to keep disaster at bay. “Fine,” he said quietly.

“You’re not keeping to yourself, are you?”

“What?”

“I remember when you were still a child,” the old man said fondly. “You and Jeanne had a big fight. You’re very good at hiding when you want to.”

Francis gave a wet laugh. “Papa, that was years ago.”

“I know,” the man said. “What I want to say is, don’t close yourself off when you’re sad.”

Francis bit his lips and closed his eyes. “Oui papa.”

“Let happiness have an opportunity to return. All right, son?”

He wiped at his eyes. “Oui, papa.” He swallowed. “How is China?”

 

 

 

 Arthur couldn’t believe it. How could a person look so elegant even with a runny nose and bloodshot eyes?  
  
Francis was sick. Ever since Jeanne had died, he’d turned taciturn and been a little bit careless. Just a few days ago, he had nicked his finger, burnt his elbow and a couple of dishes, and mistook salt for sugar. And now he was sick. He knew that Francis was still mourning Jeanne. He knew that the grief must be taking a toll on Francis’ immune system.  
  
Arthur had been observing him since he came back from Lorraine. He was irritated at the change, to say the least, but he didn’t want to do anything about it on the risk of being misinterpreted.  
  
“You didn’t have to cook me breakfast this morning if you were sick.”  
  
“You didn’t have to come over either,” Francis said in a raspy voice and blew his nose into the tissue.  
  
“Yes…well…Gilbert told me to bring you this soup.”  
  
“Thank goodness! I thought you had cooked it.”  
  
Arthur glared at him as he took out a bowl from Francis’ cupboard. “I would never cook for you.” He served the soup in front of Francis.  
  
“And for that, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” He took a small sip, ignoring Arthur’s outraged expression. His eyes lit up as he tasted it. “Ah! Dear, dear Ludwig. His cooking never changes. Feliciano must have told him I was sick.”  
  
Arthur’s scowl deepened. He put down the glass of water for Francis with more force than he intended. He sat down next to Francis and crossed his arms on his chest.  
  
“Would you like some?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“It’s quite good. Well, I did teach him the recipe.” He swirled his spoon in the bowl. “It soothes the throat quite well.”  
  
“Well, you wouldn’t need it if you weren’t standing in the sodding rain a lot,” Arthur bit out. He instantly regretted it when he saw Francis deflate and play listlessly with his food.  
  
There was an awkward silence.  _Shit._  
  
“H-how is your fever?” He focused his gaze on the table.  
  
“Better.”  
  
“Did you take medicine?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Awkward pause. Arthur squirmed in his seat. The silence stretched on until Francis was finished with his soup. Arthur quickly took it, brought it to the sink, and started washing it.  
  
“You—You should—” Arthur exhaled, looking for tactful words. “You should take better care of yourself.”

Francis remained silent.  
  
“People—they worry about you,” he said, not looking at Francis. “B-But not me, of course! Just your friends,” he added quickly, embarrassed.  
  
Francis chuckled. “You are bad at comforting people, Rosbif.”  
  
Arthur frowned at that, but felt considerably relieved to hear him laugh even though it wasn’t as hearty as before.  
  
“I am fine. I just lost my umbrella and got caught in the storm. There is nothing to worry about.”  
  
Arthur put the bowl on the rack to dry. “I’m just saying…that she wouldn’t be happy seeing you like this.”  
  
Pause. “I know.”  
  
Arthur’s cheeks heated up. “I’d better get going then,” he said, not looking at Francis as he dried his hands. “I brought you some paracetamol and pain relievers from the hospital in case you need them. I’ll be back tomorrow morning with breakfast.”  
  
“Arthur—”  
  
“I’m not going to cook; I’ll buy from the bakery tomorrow. Good night.”  
  
The door slammed. Arthur left before Francis could even say “thank you”.


	46. Day 152

**_Day 152_**  
  
Francis was finally healthy again and decided to resume his habit of cooking breakfast for Arthur. He was surprised, however, to find a black folded umbrella on the table accompanied by a note.  
  


  
  
It was a shame that Arthur was still asleep—otherwise he would have seen Francis blush.


	47. Day 168

**_Day 168_ **

 

  
“I didn’t know you drank cola, Rosbif,” Francis said all of a sudden one morning.

“It’s not for me; it’s for my cousin Alfred. Both of my cousins are coming over next week.”

Much to Arthur’s surprise, Francis lit up. “Tell me about them,” he said, smiling.

“Why are you interested all of a sudden?” he asked, suspicious.

“Just tell me,” Francis said excitedly.

Arthur looked at him, still suspicious. “They’re both from America.”

“And?”

“They both like to eat junk full of cholesterol and have no taste in fashion.”

“It runs in the family then.”

“You sod—”

“What else?”

“Alfred is noisy and Matthew is quiet. They’re twins,” he growled.

Francis’ fingers tapped on his lips thoughtfully. “They sound rather interesting. Tell me more.”

“They’re my cousins.”

“I think we’ve already established that.”

“They’re from America.”

“Arthur.”

“They’re my cousins,” Arthur said, looking pointedly at Francis, to emphasize the end of the discussion.

Francis sighed in a way that might have been mistaken for fondness. He took his coat and headed for the door. “If you’re going to be like that, I’ll just meet them myself.”

Before Arthur could even utter a word of protest, Francis was already gone.


	48. Day 176

**_Day 176_**  
  
Arthur brought his mug down the counter with a bang, signalling to the frazzled bartender that he needed another pint.  
  
“Sir, I think you’ve had enough,” said Guy, the bartender, for the nth time. (He liked the bloke—reminded him of Guy Fawkes, except his name was Guy Mollet.) It was true; Arthur had been there since that afternoon.  
  
Arthur mumbled a very drunk “shut up” and pointed at his glass. He glared drunkenly at the man.  
  
“But sir—”  
  
His scowl went deeper and the bartender just refilled his glass.  
  
“Guy,” he said, summoning the bartender to lean in closer. “Have you met a black-haired Frenchman who’d been to China?”  
  
Guy looked at him, bemused. “You ask me that every time you come here, sir. And the answer is still no.” He straightened up. “If I meet one, I’ll alert you right away.”  
  
Arthur hiccupped and looked at him dirtily. He didn’t know if Guy was making fun of him or not.  
  
The bartender patted his shoulder and then went to his other customers.  
  
He stared at his ale and sloppily took a swig. He shook his head.  
  
Nope. It was still there. He could still see the stupid nancy French tosser in his sex dream last night. Damn Francis. Damn him to hell.  
  
He’d already downed probably two barrels of second-rate French ale and it still wouldn’t leave his mind.  
  
Maybe he should drink house breaking fluid instead.  
  
Francis’ sweat drenched and flustered face crossed his mind again, panting and saying his name.  
  
“FUCK!” Arthur shouted, banging the mug against the smooth counter, almost breaking it. He buried his face in the crook of his left arm. He was already close to tears.  
  
This was all kinds ridiculous. He didn’t even  _like_  Francis.  
  
Or did he?  
  
 ** _No_** , he definitely didn’t.  
  
It was a good thing he didn’t see Francis that morning; he wouldn’t have been able to face him. As soon as he’d woken up at around noon, he’d gone straight to the bar and drunk himself silly.  
  
The thing was, it wasn’t just some silly old sex dream filled with lust—it was a sensual loving sex dream.  
  
Arthur rubbed the palms of his hands vigorously in his messy hair. Nononononono—he shouldn’t be thinking about that. He should be drinking himself to oblivion until his mind was clean of all those dirty things.  
  
He took his mug roughly and chugged the remaining bit of ale until he tipped over his stool and fell on his back.  
  
“Sir!” the bartender exclaimed, running beside him. “Sir!” Arthur felt himself being shaken but he couldn’t open his eyes, let alone tell him to stop shaking him or he’ll throw up. He felt his consciousness slipping away.  
  
“Shit, he’s gone again,” he heard Guy say.  
  
“Do you know his ICE?” asked Crouzet, the other bartender.  
  
“Yeah, it’s in the contacts book. Call M Bonnef—”  
  
Arthur blacked out.

 


	49. Day 177

_**  
Day 177 01:39 AM** _

The shrill ringing of the phone woke Francis up from his deep sleep. He blinked his eyes open, seeing nothing but darkness. He groaned. Who was it now? He scooted around in his bed lazily, letting the phone ring, hopefully the bastard who decided to call might have the decency to hang up.

The phone continued to ring arrogantly.

Francis groaned and fumbled for the phone. He sighed again for good measure before placing it next to his ear while pressing his digits against his eyes. "Allo...?" he answered sleepily.

"M Bonnefoy? This is Guy."

Guy? From the discotheque? "Yes it's me. Why are you calling?"

"Sorry for disturbing you, monsieur. Dr Kirkland has passed out in the bar and we were hoping--"

" _Who?_ " Francis asked, scowling at the ceiling.

"Dr Kirkland, monsieur. Your neighbour? Please M Bonnefoy, he has been drinking here since this afternoon."

"How much did you let him drink?"

"N-Not too much, monsieur. I alternately gave him apple juice while he was drinking like Dr Beilschmidt suggested. He didn't even notice it."

"And why didn't you call Dr Beilschmidt?"

"Because he said Dr Kirkland was your boyfriend, monsieur--"

" _WHAT?_ "

"Please pick him up, M Bonnefoy. Merci!"

Before Francis could protest, the line was already dead. He let out a long suffering sigh and hung the phone up. Damn Gilbert and his selective hearing sometimes. He wondered briefly why he was even friends with the man. He obviously had no concern for Francis.

Should he pick up his neighbour or just let him rot? He yawned, pulled the covers up to his chin and closed his eyes. If the rosbif wanted to die of alcohol poisoning, who was Francis to stop him? He should feel the full brunt of the consequences of drinking himself silly.

The air was filled with the clock ticking.

He got a grand total of eleven seconds of sleep before he threw the covers away, grabbed his coat and left his apartment, all the while grumbling under his breath about Les Fuckoffs being spoiled irresponsible pissants who were incapable of taking care of themselves.

 

_** 02:18 AM ** _

When Francis entered the discotheque, it was full of people dancing all around. He groaned and cursed in his head. How was he going to find Rosbif quickly enough for him to still be able to get some sleep?

He took a deep breath and started going through the crowd of dancing bodies.

“Excuse me—”

“What the hell?” a woman yelled as Francis accidentally pushed her too hard. 

“I’m sorry!” Francis called out as he continued through the throngs of people dancing.

“Arthur!” he called out, getting increasingly exasperated as he went further in. _Why does he have to go to a stupid bar and get himself drunk in the first place?_

“OY!” he heard a very distinct shout from somewhere to his right. He scowled. That’s Arthur all right. He quickly made way to where the sound came from.

“…‘m _not_ interested,” he saw Arthur saying _in English_ as he pointed rudely at a man with dark hair. He was wobbling a bit, probably because he was drunk.

The man in question just smirked. “Come on, it’s not like you’re with anyone,” the man replied in French, looping his arm around Arthur’s waist. “I’ve always had a taste for the English.”

Francis’ brow twitched. Who was this man? Why was he harassing Arthur?

“F’ck off, shitface!” Arthur slurred, pushing against his chest.

The man held him fast, the smirk still staying in place.

Something in Francis clicked. He didn’t have time for this. “Rosbif.”

Arthur turned to him, eyes widening a little bit at the sight of his neighbour. “ _Frog_ ,” Arthur growled, pushing hard enough at the other man that he was free of him, before he started making his way towards Francis. Upon reaching him, Arthur latched on to his collar and leaned against him.  Francis’ hand went to his back on impulse. “What are you doing here?” he mumbled against Francis’ chest.

“I’m taking you home, Rosbif.”

Arthur looked up at him with a smile, before putting a hand squarely on his face.

“And who are you?” the man who was previously harassing Arthur asked. 

Francis took Arthur’s wrist and moved it away from his face. “I—”

“That’s his boyfriend, Monsieur,” he heard someone say.

Francis looked at Guy. He didn’t even realize he was there the whole time. He looked back at the other man whose brow was arched at him.

That was probably the only way to get this an away from Arthur. Francis smirked at him. “You heard him.”

Arthur pulled his wrist away from Francis’ hand. “I hate you, frog,” Arthur slurred loudly, his finger pointing at Francis’ cheek. “Ev’n if you’re the best fuck ‘ve had…”

 _What?_ Francis’ face reddened. “Arthur, wha—”

Before he could even finish his question, Arthur’s head bent down and he vomitted on his coat. The blood drained from his face as he closed his eyes in a grimace.

When he opened them, Arthur was still hanging off him and the vomit was sliding down the front of his coat and dropping onto the floor with a sickening sound. It was amazing how he still hadn’t let go of Arthur.

“You can have him,” the other man said with a similar grimace on his face as he retreated from them.

Guy, god bless him, immediately took a rag and tried to scrape off the vomit from Francis’ coat.

Arthur, the little demon, rested his head on Francis’ shoulder and giggled. Francis could only glare at at him as he thought, _I’m never doing this again_.

 

_ **10:47 AM** _

 “Mornin’, sleepy head.”  
  
“G’morning,” Arthur grumbled, massaging his head, whilst trying to look for tea. God damned his hangover. Why was he drinking last night and who did he drink with? It was all a haze to him. He put that thought aside and looked at the man shoveling down food at his breakfast table. “Why are you wearing a Canadian shirt?”  
  
“Matt and I went to Amsterdam,” Alfred said, gulping down his milk. “You know how the Dutch are.”  
  
He was about to smile but froze on the spot. His eyes widened. Alfred sat there, shoveling down cheese omelets. He distinctly did not remember Alfred and Matthew arriving in Paris.  
  
Arthur tried his best not to hyperventilate. “How did you get in here?”  
  
“Your French boyfriend let us in because you had to get smashed last night.”  
  
“You weren’t supposed to be here unti—HE’S NOT MY BOYFRIEND!” His head throbbed when he yelled.  
  
"He isn't?"  
  
"He most definitely isn't."  
  
"But he cooks your breakfast and picks you up when you get stone drunk?"  
  
"W-Well...yes." He shuddered to think what his cousin would insinuate if he found out that Francis sometimes shopped with him too. Or that Arthur took care of him when he was grieving and when he was sick. Or that he gave him an umbrella. Or that he held Francis to sleep that night he came back from Lorraine for Ms La Pucelle's funeral. He felt his cheeks heat up.  
  
Alfred studied his face. "Are you sure?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
The American hummed. “He’s a great cook; does he come by here often or does he already stay here?”  
  
“He’s my neighbor, you git,” Arthur spat as he sat down. “And he’s a chef somewhere.”  
  
“Really? Sweet.” He chewed thoughtfully. “You know, I always thought you hated French guys.”  
  
“I do hate the French.”  
  
“Francis must be special then.” He swallowed and cut off Arthur before he could give an undignified outburst. “When did Matt ever learn how to speak French?”  
  
“He’s known it since we were children, you dunderhead,” Arthur bit out. “Speaking of which, where is he?”  
  
“He and Francis went out to buy some French stuff—I don’t remember what it’s called.”  
  
“And you just let him go with a complete stranger?” Arthur asked, massaging his temples.  
  
“Yeah. Francis seemed like a good guy. Plus Matt’s a cop—he can take care of himself.”  
  
Arthur gave him a look before noticing a note with a blister of tablet on the table.  
  


  
  
Arthur’s palm slammed on his very red face, causing his headache to grow worse.  
  
“So…is rosbif French for Arthur or is it some kind of pet name? Matt wouldn’t translate the note for me.”  
  
Arthur glared at him and secretly thanked Matthew.  
  
“Come on tell me.”  
  
“It means roast beef.”  
  
“Oh. A pet name then.”  
  
“It’s not a pet name.” Arthur continued to massage his temples. It was going to be another bad morning. In fact, he didn’t remember a time when he had a good morning in Paris.  
  
Alfred laughed. “Roast beef doesn’t sound so romantic though. So how’s your search going on?”  
  
He looked up. “Search?”  
  
“You know, that black-haired dude you were talking about?”  
  
“No luck.”  
  
“Aww too bad.”  
  
“Not a word about it to anyone,” Arthur warned.  
  
“Didn’t you tell Francis? He could have helped you, you know.”  
  
“Alfred, I’m serious. Not. A. Word.”  
  
Alfred blew a raspberry. “Fine. You already have a French boyfriend anyway.”  
  
Matthew came home to a disgruntled Arthur trying to choke an amused Alfred.  _Ah, home sweet home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!


	50. Day 178

**_Day 178_**  
  
Francis loves flowers—especially roses and lilies. He likes fine wine, clothes, incense, crumpets, sunshine, old movies, Gabriel Marcel, chocolates, rain, ballet, Pablo Neruda, silk, pomegranates, etc.  
  
Arthur didn’t need to know. He didn’t want to know, really.  ~~Especially since he already noticed those about Francis when he stayed over.~~  He wondered how both came to know in a day what took him months to learn.  
  
It was as if his cousins were hinting that they liked Francis—or to be more precise, they liked Francis  _for_  Arthur.  
  
And to put the point across, the ever reliable Alfred sent Francis some red roses that morning under Arthur’s name.  
  
“Why the fuck did you do that?!”  
  
“Art,” Alfred said, in all seriousness, “You’ve known each other for six months and you haven’t made a move. I mean, I know you’re a Brit so you’re kinda awkward, but I didn’t know you were this bad.”  
  
His face went from angry red to outraged scarlet. “I _DON’T LIKE_ HIM!”  
  
“Yeah, whatevs. Hey, I looked into your shelf and saw some movies. We should have a movie night tonight, right Matt?”  
  
“Sounds good,” Matthew replied shyly, trying not to make eye-contact with Arthur.  
  
It was really a mystery why Arthur hasn’t kicked them out yet—especially since they invited the frog and his dog to the said movie night.  
  
And especially since they removed all possibilities of him not sitting next to Francis.  
  
“So, Alfred, cher, why did you choose such a line of work?”  
  
It was surreal. Arthur realized that this was actually the first time he’d heard Francis speak in English. He didn’t even know he could speak the language. Granted, his English was accented (he still omitted his “h” and sometimes he would slip into the French pronunciation when the words came too close to the French equivalent). But still, the grammar wasn’t bad at all. All this time he never told Arthur.  _Sodding French git._  
  
Alfred shrugged and shoveled more popcorn into his mouth. “Well, I’ve realized this since I was a kid, you know? When I saw Artie’s teeth, I just knew. There’d be nothing more heroic than setting those things straight.”  
  
“Ah Alfred, so heroic,” Francis giggled. “But I think it is impossible to even try to straighten English teeth.”  
  
That earned him a hit on his pretty little French head as Alfred howled in laughter.  
  
“Artie, I can’t believe you never introduced this guy to us! I really like him!” Alfred half-shouted towards Arthur, almost rendering Francis deaf.  
  
He winked at Arthur to make his point clear, which pretty much meant,  _Art, I like this guy for you and if you don’t take him, I’ll shout at you until you go deaf or take him; whichever goes first; but knowing you, you’d rather be deaf first but who cares? I’d still win anyway because I’m the hero!_  
  
Stupid Yank.  
  
No, that wouldn’t be right; Alfred never uses semicolons.  
  
“Me too,” Matthew seconded shyly.  
  
“Oh you are both too kind.”  
  
“If you bastards don’t shut your gobs, I’ll kick you all out.”  
  
Nada came up to Alfred and licked him on the cheek, wagging her tail as she assaulted him.  
  
“She likes you,” Francis said, grinning.  
  
“Yeah, I get that a lot. Why’d you name her Nada?” Alfred asked, petting the dog. “Isn’t it kinda strange to name a dog after, well, nothing?”  
  
“It means ‘ope in Russian,” said Francis with a small smile. “At least that is what my…friend…told me.”  
  
Arthur’s jaw tightened. “I can’t hear the sodding movie with all your yammering. Do you want to watch the movie or not?”  
  
“Sheeesh what got your panties in a bunch?”  
  
He glared at his cousin.  
  
“Ah Alfred, you should know by now that all Englishmen ‘ave sticks up their asses.”  
  
The twins laughed as Arthur elbowed him in the face.


	51. Day 179

**_Day 179_**  
  
Matthew offered him a slice of baguette as he sat down on the breakfast table. His cousin was already dressed and ready for the day.  
  
Arthur looked at it. “Where’s Francis?”  
  
“He went to Lorraine earlier this morning,” he said meekly. “He usually celebrates there.”  
  
Arthur picked at the baguette. He didn’t feel as hungry. “Isn’t it more patriotic to celebrate Bastille Day in Paris?”  
  
Matthew stared at him. “Arthur…it’s his birthday today.”  
  
Arthur looked at him. Matthew looked back. “Are you…serious?”  
  
Matthew nodded. “I thought you knew. Have you greeted him already?”  
  
Arthur shook his head. “I-I’m not obligated to greet him.”  
  
“Arthur.”  
  
“We’re seeing the fireworks today, right?”  
  
A hand suddenly came on top of his head and he jumped.  
  
“Don’t worry, Art. He said he’ll be back tomorrow.”  
  
Arthur slapped his hand away. “I don’t care.”  
  
The doorbell rang. Arthur immediately got up to answer it before the twins could say anything. As soon as he opened the door, Gilbert went right in, without so much as a greeting.  
  
“Art, you’re definitely coming, right? Because I already told Feli that you were, so you’re not allowed to say no,” he said, entering his loft.  
  
Arthur caught him by the shoulder. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“Francis’ birthday party tomorrow,” Gilbert said, as if Arthur should have already known what he was talking about. “You’re not allowed to refuse,” he added, as soon as Arthur opened his mouth. He escaped from Arthur’s grasp. “All right then, I’m here to pick up Nada,” he said, going deeper into the house and stopping at the kitchen. “Where is—hello.”  
  
The twins waved back at him.  
  
“Matthew, Alfred, this is Gilbert, from the hospital. Gilbert, these two are my cousins.”  
  
“Oh,” he said, extending a hand to Alfred. “It’s nice to meet you two.”  
  
“Alfred,” Alfred said, with his usual charm as he shook hands.  
  
“Matthew,” Matthew said, taking his hand. “You’re…German?”  
  
“Ja. I’m also his neighbour’s awesome wing man,” Gilbert said with a wink. “I came to pick up his dog, actually.”  
  
“Oh, Nada’s in the bedroom,” Alfred said, leaving the room to get the dog.  
  
“So you guys already met Francis?”  
  
Matthew nodded. “Yes. Great guy.”  
  
“Sweet!” Gilbert said, rubbing his hands together. “You guys should go to his party tomorrow. It’ll be awesome.”  
  
“Sounds great,” Alfred said, handing him Nada’s leash.  
  
“Wait a minute,” Arthur interrupted. “I haven’t agreed to this yet.”  
  
Gilbert turned to him with a scowl. “I said you can’t refuse.”  
  
“Yeah, Art! Come on!”  
  
“It would be nice to go,” Matthew added. “We don’t have anything planned for tomorrow anyway.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“It’s settled then!” Gilbert said, slapping a piece of paper into Matthew’s hand. “That’s the address. It’s at six tomorrow.   
I’ll be seeing you three.” He strode towards the door. “Oh yeah, this is a surprise, so don’t tell Francis anything,” he added before he slammed the door.  
  
That night, they watched the fireworks at the Eiffel tower. Somehow, the light show didn’t look as beautiful as when he saw it earlier in February.


	52. Day 180

**_Day 180_ **

  
If his cousins had not forced him to, he wouldn’t have bought gardenias. Really, who gives flowers to another man? Well, at least they weren’t red roses. Alfred had insisted, but Arthur remained steadfast in refusing him.  
  
“You need something that says,” Alfred said and then he whispered the rest of the sentence to Matthew who then whispered the assumed translated message to the French florist.  
  
The florist brightened and arranged a beautiful bouquet of gardenias and handed them to Arthur.  
  
“And what does this mean?” he asked the florist, suspicious.  
  
The man smiled. “I love you in secret.”  
  
Arthur had a fit of apoplexy.  
  
He wondered, was he really no longer in charge of his life? He’d bought a bouquet against his will and now he was at a party he didn’t want to attend held for a man he disliked. Hopefully, Francis doesn’t know what these flowers meant. No, he did not like Francis Bonnefoy in the least and damn you for thinking such ludicrous things.  
  
“He’ll be here soon,” said Feliciano, as cheerful as ever.  
  
Arthur grunted in reply.  
  
“Gardenias!” Eliza squealed when she saw Arthur. “How deliciously subtle, Dr Kirkland!”  
  
Arthur cringed. Damn. Hopefully, Francis wasn’t aware of the meaning. “You can call me Arthur. And this isn’t what it looks like.”  
  
She giggled. “Oh don’t be shy.” She sat down beside him. “It’s not as straightforward like red roses as I had hoped, but it’s still just as sweet.”  
  
“But he already sent him red roses,” Feliciano piped up. “It was delivered to the kitchen a few days ago.”  
  
Arthur turned red and almost lost his hearing at Eliza’s excited high pitched squealing.  
  
“I-I didn’t—”  
  
“Will you keep it down?” Gilbert hissed at his childhood friend. “We don’t want him to hear you from the outside.”  
  
Eliza stuck her tongue out at him and hugged Arthur. “And you look dressed up too! That’s so sweet!”  
  
Arthur tried his best to scowl. He hadn’t picked his outfit. In truth, Matthew had. Now he felt like sheep led to the slaughter.  
  
“Oh my god!” exclaimed Feliks, who was earlier introduced as one of Gilbert’s childhood friends who also happened to be Francis’ friend. “He’s coming! He’s coming!”  
  
“Get ready, everyone!” Antonio, who had finally been introduced to him earlier, announced.  
  
The people in the room took their positions. The minute the door opened, there was a deafening roar of “Bon Anniversaire!” before Francis was drowned by a sea of friends.  
  
Arthur was probably one of the few who noticed the tall man that came in right after him. He had wheat-blond hair, violet eyes and a prominent nose. He was looking at Francis fondly. Who was he?  
  
“Ivan,” Eliza said as she separated from the crowd around Francis. “What a pleasant surprise!”  
  
“Eliza!” the man exclaimed, pulling her into an embrace. “How have you been?”  
  
“I-I’ve been fine!” she said, patting his back. “When did you arrive in Paris? I thought you had a show.”  
  
He smiled. “I came here with Francis. We visited Jeanne’s grave in Lorraine. I have a show tomorrow, but I traveled separately from Kirov.”  
  
“Rosbif?”  
  
Arthur jumped, interrupting his eavesdropping. He turned and looked at Francis who was looking at him in bewilderment.  
  
“You came,” he said with a smile.  
  
Arthur thrust the bouquet of gardenias rather awkwardly at Francis’ face with a scowl. Somehow, he felt his mood plummet.  
  
Francis took the bouquet from his face. “Thank you, Rosbif.” He lips were curving into a smile but set back into a straight line as soon as he saw Arthur’s expression. “Is something wrong?”  
  
Before he could even deny that something was wrong, Antonio’s arms encircled around Francis’ neck. “Francis, come over here, I have something to show you.” Francis was led away, leaving Arthur and his massive scowl.

Arthur spent most of the party brooding next to where the champagne was placed. Over the course of the celebration, Ivan had only left Francis’ side once, which was at the start of the party. He started tailing really closely behind Francis once his bouquet of red roses (twice the size of Arthur’s) arrived. The frog then went around the room, exchanging pleasantries and catching up with friends while the tall man loomed behind him. All the while, Francis called each of them cher or cherie—even Alfred and Matthew whom he’d just met.  
  
Francis never called him that. Not even once.  
  
His mood soured. Then it soured further when he realized that his mood was affected because the frog didn’t call him cher. He didn’t really care about that. He didn’t. He was just bored. The champagne was making him think stupid thoughts. Damn this stupid champagne.  
  
“I didn’t think he would make a move so soon,” Eliza said sympathetically.  
  
“What are you on about now?” Arthur asked, scowling.  
  
“Well, one of the reasons why their relationship didn’t work out was because of Jeanne. She didn’t like that Ivan wanted to keep Francis to himself.”  
  
“Man, I hate that guy,” Gilbert said drunkenly, chugging down his nth beer.  
  
He didn’t really understand why they both decided to sit beside him halfway through the party.  
  
“Gil, I think Feliks is wearing out.”  
  
“Right,” Gilbert said, wobbly standing up to substitute the mechanic. Francis’ friends had been taking turns talking to him so he wouldn’t be alone with just Ivan.  
  
“I don’t understand what you’re doing this for,” said Arthur. “They look happy enough.”  
  
“I told you, Francis doesn’t like him like that,” she said, exasperated. “But don’t get me wrong; Ivan is a very wonderful person. It’s just that he’s a little bit too obsessed with Francis.”  
  
Arthur hummed, not convinced. If he really didn’t like him like that, he has a poor way of showing it.  
  
He observed as Feliks left. Ivan and Francis were alone. The taller man started talking to Francis. Where was Gilbert? He scanned the room and saw him pulling Alfred with him. He looked back at Francis and saw him looking uncomfortable at Ivan as the taller man leaned over him. Gilbert finally reached them and slapped Francis’ back and started talking in an obnoxious and slightly drunken voice. Then Alfred joined in, hooking his arm around Ivan’s shoulder. Ivan looked very irritated.  
  
Arthur shook his head and went back to his drink.  
  
“Maybe I should go there and help them,” she said, standing up, her eyes suspiciously sparkling.  
  
Arthur ignored the look and nodded. He concentrated on looking at the other people who attended, trying to recall their names out of boredom. Well, there was Feliks, the Polish mechanic he had been introduced to earlier as Eliza and Gilbert’s childhood friend, talking to Antonio (Francis and Gilbert’s dancer friend whom he allegedly threw up on) and Toris from pediatrics. Then there was Feliciano, Francis’ commis, talking animatedly to Ludwig who was nodding at whatever the expressive Italian was saying. Then there was Yao, the manager of the restaurant Francis was working for. The man was talking to Berwald and Timo. Then there was Yong-soo, Feliciano’s student friend who also worked as a plongeur for Yao. He was talking to Lily, Rene the oncologist and Michelle, his younger sister. Then Lily’s brother, Vash, who was having a conversation with Matthew.  
  
“Arthur?”

He turned to see Francis, alone, standing right beside him. Wasn’t he on the other side of the room just a few minutes ago?  
  
“Are you enjoying the party?”  
  
Arthur took a sip from his champagne. “It’s not as dreadful as I expected it to be.”  
  
Francis laughed. “I’m glad you are enjoying yourself then.” He took a glass of champagne for himself. “I wanted to ask you something.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Francis looked at him, his expression unreadable. “I’m going to Prague next week. Do you think you could accompany me?”  
  
Arthur flushed. Was—Was Francis asking him to take a vacation with him? The  _nerve_  of this frog, coming on to him in public! In front of his friends!  
  
“I-I—”  
  
“Come ooooon, Art, it’ll be fun,” slurred Gilbert as he draped himself on Francis. “I know where all the awesome pubs are! We’ll have a blast!”  
  
 _We?_  Arthur looked at Francis. “Of course, your cousins should come along!” he added rather hesitantly.  
  
Arthur’s colour deepened.  _Of course._  Why would Francis want to go out of the country with just him? He was doing it so that Alfred and Matthew wouldn’t feel left out. He felt angry with himself for even thinking that.  
  
Arthur bit his lip and was about to refuse when Matthew interrupted. “It sounds like fun,” he said, smiling at them.  
  
“Wha—”  
  
“ALL RIGHT!” Gilbert exclaimed energetically, almost losing his balance. Francis caught him. Arthur noticed that he was still holding the gardenias he had given him earlier. Needless to say, it didn’t help his blush subside.  
  
Arthur scowled and crossed him arms. He looked around, trying to find Alfred and he saw him still with Ivan. Although this time, Ivan looked murderous and was looking straight at him.

 


	53. Day 181

**_Day 181_ **

  
  
Arthur and Matthew just came home from Francis’ party, a drunk Alfred hanging off their shoulders. It was already two in the morning.  
  
They dropped Alfred on the bed. Arthur rolled his shoulders and stretched his back. “Stupid yank should really go on a bloody diet.”  
  
Matthew laughed.  
  
“ ‘s muscle,” Alfred moaned.  
  
“Right.” Arthur sat down on the bed and sighed.  
  
“Arthur?”  
  
He looked up at Matthew. “Yes?”  
  
Matthew sat down on the other side of the bed. “You like him, don’t you?”  
  
“Who?” Arthur said, frowning. He already knew who Matthew was talking about.  
  
“Francis.”  
  
He didn’t even have enough energy to throw a fit. He sighed. “Matthew—”  
  
“Just this once, be honest with yourself.”  
  
Arthur looked at him in the eye and the younger man looked back. He sighed and rubbed his eyes in an exasperated manner.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Arthur looked at his fingers in surprise. He had meant to say no, but he never felt so relieved when he said yes.  _Oh well, at least Alfred didn't hear anything._  
  
Matthew smiled kindly at him.  
  
“Knew it,” Alfred quipped drunkenly.  
  
 _Bollocks._  “Shut up.” Arthur decided to chalk it up to being slightly drunk.  
  
“So what are you going to do?”  
  
“Matthew,” Arthur said, frustrated. “There is  _nothing_  I should do.”  
  
Matthew frowned at him. “I think he likes you too.”  
  
Arthur glared. “Oh really? What makes you say that?”  
  
Matthew smiled and looked away, as though he were in on an inside joke that Arthur wasn’t privy to.  
  
“Matthew,” Arthur said testily.  
  
“You know I don’t like talking about other people behind their backs,” he said, picking at his sleeve. “But I just noticed it from the way he talks about you.”  
  
“Rubbish,” Arthur dismissed.  
  
They sat in silence. Matthew obviously had no concrete proof that Arthur wouldn’t be able to shoot down.  
  
Alfred laughed all of a sudden. “Aww man!” he hiccupped. “You—You guys shoulda *hic* You guys shoulda seen that russki’s face!” He grabbed Arthur’s sleeve and hiccupped. “He—He was really—”  
  
His face fell back into the duvet. He was knocked out again.  
  
Matthew and Arthur looked at each other before laughing.  
  
Alfred’s head perked up again. “Pissed,” he said, finishing his sentence. He hiccupped. “Bastard *hic* thought he could *hic* he could—he could take Franny to *hic* to Prague alone.”  
  
Arthur rolled his eyes with a smile. “Yes, and he invited you two to come along.”  
  
Alfred blew a raspberry. “Naaaaaaawww *hic* we invited ourselves and *hic* Mattie. *hic* Crash his—crash his *hic* commie party.” Alfred dissolved in giggles.  
  
Arthur’s smile disappeared. If he remembered correctly, Eliza also invited herself to go with them along with her husband.  
Then that meant…that meant that Francis only—  
  
Arthur flushed.  
  
Matthew chuckled. “He only invited you, eh?”  
  
Arthur glared at him and left the room in a hurry—the twins’ laughter following him.


	54. Day 182

**_Day 182_ **   
  


It  _can’t_  be true. No, Francis didn’t like him. And Arthur definitely  _didn’t_  like him back!

Arthur scrubbed at his face, still unable to sleep whereas his cousins had long dozed off in the futons. The sound of the ticking clock agitated his tired mind further.

_'He only invited you, eh?'_

Matthew's words rang back in this head and he clutched at his sheets as he turned over. Why would Francis invite him to go on a trip to Prague? It's not like they were on friendly terms. Sure, Francis cooked for him, but it wasn't like it was for Arthur's sake. Right? Sure, he sometimes went to the grocery with him, and he comforted him when he was at his lowest. It was what a decent gentleman would do. It wasn't like any of that meant anything. There was that one time he slept over...but that was just him being...neighbourly. Yes. And that sex dream--

_Oh gods._

He slapped himself hard and clutched at his blanket when he heard Matthew stir, heart hammering rapidly in his chest, unsure if it was because he might've woken Matthew up or...something...else.

He hid under the blanket. He was being ridiculous. Of course, it was because he didn't want to wake Matthew.

And. Sex dreams. They. They happen. It's not like. It's not like it means anything. Or. Yes. It didn't mean a thing. Dreams were just. Strange movies that go off in your head. They meant nothing. Absolutely.

Nothing.

And that invitation meant nothing as well. Just.

He breathed deeply.  _Calm_. He had to be calm. Yes. None of it meant anything at all. Nothing. Yes. Quite. Francis was just his annoying neighbour and he was sure that the feeling was mutual. There was nothing between them. Nothing.

Nothing at all.

So why couldn't he sleep?

 

 


	55. Day 184

**_Day 184_**  
  
Arthur never foresaw any of these happening—particularly because Matthew was never someone who would do something like this.  
  
Upon arriving to the hostel (because Francis had insisted that it would be more of an adventure if they stayed at one instead of some fancy hotel), Matthew had to come up with a “brilliant” idea of how to make the trip more exciting.  
  
“There’s a game Alfred and I play when we travel with other people.”  
  
“Uh, Matt, I don’t think—”  
  
“We draw lots and pick out roommates.”  
  
Everybody stared at Matthew. Alfred was fidgeting and Ivan looked sceptical.  
  
“That sounds fun!” Gilbert said, breaking the silence and patting Matthew on the back. “Don’t you think so, Francis?”  
  
“Yes,” he replied, smiling. “That sounds rather exciting.”  
  
Matthew smiled. “Thanks. I’ve already prepared for it,” he said, showing the folded pieces of paper in his hand. “But I excluded the Edelsteins, since, you know, I figured they should room together, eh?”  
  
Roderich Edelstein, Eliza’s husband, smiled. “Of course. Thank you, Matthew.”  
  
“So there are six pieces of paper here. The first three correspond with the number of the other three.”

With that, everyone picked out a piece of paper.  
  
That’s when the chaos started.  
  
There were only two in each room. Alfred ended up being roommates with Gilbert, Francis ended up being roommates with Arthur, and Matthew ended up being roommates with Ivan.  
  
Ivan and Alfred were very upset. It wasn’t that Alfred didn’t like rooming with Gilbert; it was just that he didn’t like Matthew being alone with a crazy Russian psycho. And Ivan, well, he was upset for obvious reasons.  
  
Arthur also wanted to complain, feeling that the process had been rigged, but he was too tired from the trip because he hadn’t had any sleep the night before. No, it wasn’t out of excitement.  
  
“I’m all right with it,” Matthew quipped over Alfred and Ivan’s loud voices.  
  
“I think it would be interesting,” Francis said, trying to placate Ivan.  
  
“BOTH OF YOU BE QUIET!” Roderich shouted, leaving his sophisticated air for five seconds.

Ivan and Alfred did, mostly out of surprise.  
  
“Thank you, dear,” Eliza said, rubbing her husband’s back. She turned to both of them. “Look at you two!” she scolded them, complete with her hands on her hips, making her look like a mother hen. “We came to Prague to have fun. So what if you didn’t get the roommates you wanted? Be real men and suck it up!”  
  
With that, the Edelsteins stomped off to their room. “We’ll meet back down here for dinner,” she added before she disappeared up the stairs.


	56. Day 185

_**Day 185**_  
  
The night before passed without incident. Rooming with Francis didn’t seem as scandalous as he thought it would be. It might have been because Francis came back long after Arthur had been asleep; presumably because he had been with Ivan.  
  
It didn’t matter. Arthur didn’t care. He definitely didn’t wait for him.  
  
He’d expected that he wouldn’t be spending that much time with Francis anyway in this trip by the way Ivan had been following him in the party the week before.  
  
So it came as a surprise to Arthur that he was sitting in a café in Prague, opposite to Francis while Matthew and Gilbert checked the establishment’s wares for something to buy for Alfred. This morning, Gilbert came to their room to walk around the city with Francis while Arthur was bathing. After that, Matthew came in and asked him to go have breakfast, saying that Alfred slept late last night so he didn’t want to wake him up. Then Gilbert happened to pick the café where Arthur and Matthew entered by coincidence and decided they should have breakfast together. It was all very suspicious.  
  
He was alone with Francis. It was perfect for  _that_.  
  
“Just so you know,” Arthur started, hoping to sound conversational even though he didn’t make eye contact. “I didn’t send you those roses.”  
  
“I know. The twins did.”  
  
Arthur studied him from the corner of his eye. He didn’t seem upset. Well, why would he be? The man looked nonchalant. He wanted to ask how he knew about it, but decided not to.  
  
“The twins also made me buy those gardenias for you.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Lastly, I hate you. I thought I should make that clear.”  
  
Francis hummed in agreement and took a sip of his tea.  
  
The air around them was tense. He was irritated. He was miffed that Francis wasn’t outraged at all.  
  
Arthur sipped his tea and looked at Francis warily. He changed the subject. “You woke up early this morning.”  
  
“I hardly slept.”  
  
He hummed. “Where were you?”  
  
He smirked and leaned back in his seat. “Oh? Was Rosbif worried about me?”  
  
Arthur flushed. “WHY THE HELL WOULD I WORRY ABOUT YOU, MARIANNE?!?!”  
  
People at the café were looking at them. “Marianne?”  
  
“Y-Yes.”  
  
Francis merely looked at him. “Really, Rosbif?  _Marianne?_ ”  
  
Arthur’s face fell in his hand. “S-Shut it.”  
  
The Frenchman laughed and Arthur observed him. Did he feel the same way about Ivan? Francis didn’t strike him as the kind of man who would carelessly trifle with other people’s feelings. If he didn’t like him, then he should have rejected Ivan’s advances, right? He was probably with Ivan last night, no doubt about it. He went to Lorraine with him too. And spent his birthday with him.  
  
Arthur felt his heart sink. He can’t possibly compete with Ivan.  
  
His heart stopped. What? Did he just—  
  
His face flushed and he slapped himself across the cheek.  
  
“Rosbif? Are you all right?” Francis asked, bewildered, reaching over to touch Arthur.  
  
The Brit slapped his hand away and just glared at him. How dare this stupid frog invade his thoughts in such a way?  
  
Francis looked at him with a pout on his lips, his chin resting on his hand. He almost looked cute.  
  
“Stop that.”  
  
“Stop what?”  
  
“ _That._ ”  
  
“I can’t help it, Rosbif. I am naturally devilishly handsome.” He winked.  
  
 _God damned insufferable poncy frog._  
  
He leaned over, and before he could stop him, Francis poked the tip of his nose. “Shy pink,” he said, with a grin on his face.  
  
“W-Wot?” he asked, rather dumbly.  
  
Francis sat back on his seat. “I’ve taken it upon myself to name all the different shades your face goes.” He sneered.   
“Rosbif is thinking of something naughty, no?”  
  
Arthur’s face heated up.  
  
“Ooh la la~! Embarrassed coral!”

Matthew held him in place before he could lunge at Francis. Arthur glared at him and he smiled back before sitting beside him. “So what have you two been talking about?”  
  
Francis laughed. “Nothing in particular.” Gilbert sat beside him.  
  
Arthur crossed his arms and look away. At least the tension was gone.  
  
Matthew’s phone rang. He picked it up and looked at the screen. “It’s Alfred,” he said, before picking it up. “Hel—Oh, Ivan.”  
  
The table was suddenly tense again. Francis fidgeted.  
  
“What? Oh, no. He’s not with us.” He paused. “No, I didn’t see him.” He paused again. “Yes, yes, of course. All right. Have a nice day. Bye.” He ended the call.  
  
“What did he want?” Gilbert asked gruffly.  
  
“Erm…he wanted to know…where Roderich was.”  
  
Francis looked at him in surprise. Gilbert tried to hide his laughter and Arthur rolled his eyes. It was a bad lie, and they all knew it for what it was.  
  
“Don’t worry, Alfred’s with him! He won’t be lonely,” he added shyly.  
  
“Yeah,” Gilbert agreed. “And Eliza said she’ll kill us if we went with them.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Gilbert shrugged, but it seemed like he knew something.  
  
“Oh, Francis, where were you last night? Ivan was looking for you.”  
  
Arthur perked up. He looked at Francis. So he  _wasn’t_  with Ivan last night?  
  
“Around,” he said, his expression not revealing anything.  
  
Gilbert looked at him with an eyebrow raised. He bumped his elbow with Francis’. “Why didn’t you call me?” They looked at each other. Francis merely smiled at him. Gilbert’s eyes widened in realization and then nodded.  
  
“What? What is it?”  
  
“Aww it’s nothing,” Gilbert said, sipping his coffee.  
  
Arthur narrowed his eyes at them as they went back to normal as if nothing happened. Something fishy was going on here.


	57. Chapter 57

**_Day 186_**  
  
Arthur saw him. He couldn’t believe it. He saw the black haired man. In Prague. The Edelsteins had just entered the Prague Castle and Arthur was about to join them when he saw him. He probably came from the St. Vitus Cathedral. He wasn’t able to talk to him, but he was sure it was him. He’d heard the man speak French. At first he thought it was Francis, but when he looked at the speaker, it was the man he met in Beijing. He tried to follow him, but he couldn’t. The man had moved too damned fast and before he knew it, Arthur lost him.  
  
He tried to find his cousins, but they weren’t there. He was devastated. He was excited. He was frustrated that he’d lost him.  
  
But he was in Prague and that was all that mattered.


	58. Day 187

  
**_Day 187_ **

Arthur woke up to the sight of Francis with his back turned to him draped in nothing but a skimpy towel while he dried his hair. Tiny droplets of water tantalizingly crawled down Francis’ toned back and thigh—

“PUT SOME BLOODY CLOTHES ON YOU WANKER!” Arthur shouted, red-faced, throwing the pillow in outrage at the display.  
Unfortunately, Francis turned around at his roommate’s outburst, causing the pillow to smack his middle, which in turn unravelled the towel around his waist.

Which resulted to Arthur being treated to a very splendid view of Francis’ rather splendid—er—

_Package._

The Englishman immediately hid his face in another pillow and shouted disgusted expletives into it.

Francis picked up the towel and wrapped it around his waist again, clucking his tongue. “There was no need to resort to such tactics, Rosbif,” he said, brows knitted.

Arthur flipped him off. “AS IF I’D WANT TO SEE YOUR—YOUR—”

“All right, all right,” Francis said, impatiently waving his hand at Arthur. “You’re so noisy in the morning.”

The Englishman vigorously rubbed his hands against his face, as if to wash off the exposure of the indecent display.

“Can’t you be bloody decent at least when you’re in another country?” he groaned.

“You say that as if you always see me naked, Rosbif.” His eyes widened and he looked at Arthur. “You don’t…watch me inside my flat do you?”

Arthur glared at him. “What?”

“I mean, I’ve heard many cases of English voyeurs—I was just kidding!” He retracted whatever he meant to say when he saw Arthur ominously pick up a lamp.

“You should get dressed. Eliza said to meet them downstairs for breakfast,” the frog said as soon as he put the lamp back down.

He grudgingly got out of bed and yawned.

“I heard you came back late last night. Where were you?”

Arthur looked at him disdainfully. He had been looking for the black-haired man in the district where he saw him, but he didn’t catch him at all. “Shouldn’t I be asking _you_ that?”

Francis shrugged. “I was just walking around.”

“Then that’s what I was doing as well.”

“Ah then we should have taken a stroll together, no?” Francis said sarcastically.

He shut himself in the bathroom without answering.

As if God has not bestowed enough obscenities to his precious, precious eyes, Arthur found himself later that afternoon being dragged into Prague’s Sex Machine Museum by Francis. He had thought that it was going to be a culture tour because Eliza had told them that she wanted to go to the city’s Old Town Square. Admittedly, the place had a lot of historic sites and great gothic architecture. But Prague, being as exotic as it can, decided that it should have a museum of this nature right in the middle of its heritage site.

If he knew that it contained such a place, he would have suggested going to a pub instead.

But if Arthur was distraught, Roderich was already frothing in the mouth. It was not a proper place for a lady to visit.

Eliza ignored him and steered him over to look at exotic bondage gears.

The museum contained a lot more than that though—dildos, vibrators, condoms, harnesses, leather masks, whips, and bondage equipment were seen everywhere. It was not a place for a gentleman such as himself to be found in. He told Francis as much as they looked at a wooden see-saw with dildos on both ends of its foundations presumably to penetrate the riders’ nether regions repeatedly as they rode the plank in the manner of a normal see-saw.

“I’m surprised a gentleman can see such a thing from this display. All I see is a see-saw,” Francis said, raising his brows and smirking at him. “Or perhaps you’re not as much of a gentleman as you claim to be?”

That earned him a smack on the head by a maroon-faced Englishman.

In the end, he spent the entire day with Francis, Eliza and Roderich. He tried to keep an eye out for the man yesterday, but he didn’t see him. Francis must have given him bad luck. After all, he wasn’t with the bastard yesterday.

Arthur settled at a tearoom near the hostel later that evening. The Edelsteins had gone and Francis was off to who knows where. Whatever. He needed time to himself anyway.

 

Unfortunately, life didn’t always give him what he needed, as he found Ivan suddenly seated opposite him.

“Ivan,” he said dumbly.

“Arthur,” the man replied, nodding to him. “Have you seen Francis?”

“Not after he disappeared,” he answered cryptically.

Ivan sighed, nursing his cup. “Francis is avoiding me.”

Arthur gripped his cup tighter. It was true. But it seemed very rude to confirm it. The best way was to act clueless. “Really now?”

“I know he does not love me, and he is making me meet other people because he cares,” he said, not looking t Arthur. “But love does not disappear that quickly.”

Arthur frowned. Why was he telling him this? He felt sorry for Ivan, he really did; especially because he spent the day with Francis and this man sitting opposite to him might not have even caught a glimpse of the frog since the room assignments. But he didn’t know how to approach the situation.

“I-I’m sure it will turn out all right.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “So how has your trip been so far—aside from that of course?”

Ivan gave a small smile. “It has been going well.” He paused. “Your cousin is…quite strange.”

Arthur chuckled. “Matthew just likes being quiet is all.”

“I was talking about Alfred.”

“Oh,” Arthur said, straightening up. Did Alfred do anything? His cousin had always been a little too in-your-face for some people. “He hasn’t been causing you any trouble, has he?”

Ivan bit his lip thoughtfully. “He is…straightforward.”

The Englishman laughed weakly. That cannot be good.

“But it is not entirely unwelcome.”

Arthur’s brow rose at Ivan’s tone. It was almost that of fondness, if his eyes didn’t look so miserable. But that was impossible. He distinctly remembered Ivan looking like he wanted to choke the life out of Alfred when they got to Prague.  
Upon closer study, he noticed the beginnings of a bruise near his left eye.

Ivan looked at him. “What about you? You seem to have been troubled lately.”

“I-It’s nothing.” He opted not to ask about the mark on the other’s face. He was sure that Alfred was all right.

“It might alleviate the problem slightly if you discussed it with someone.”

Arthur looked at him.

“That is what Francis always told me,” the Russian added kindly.

If somebody told Arthur that he would have a conversation like this with Ivan a few days ago, he would say that that person was off his rocker. But as improbable as it might be, he found himself relaying the story of his encounter with the black-haired man in Beijing and his almost-encounter with him yesterday. He never really pictured Ivan as a kind person—mostly because of the way Gilbert acted towards him.

Ivan wore an unreadable expression; his body suddenly stiff.

“Don’t tell anyone about this though,” Arthur said. “It’s quite embarrassing.”

“Yes. Yes of course,” Ivan said, standing up. “Excuse me.” He left. Arthur presumed, to go to the loo.

The Russian danseur didn’t come back.


	59. Day 188

**_ Day 188 _ **

Ivan had finally caught Francis, telling him excitedly about a Museum of Communism or whatever. He spent the entire day with him.  
  
Eliza tried to persuade Arthur into joining them, but he refused out of pity for Ivan and out of the fact that Francis wouldn’t care to spend time with him anyway. Not that Arthur cared to spend time with the frog either. He didn’t.  
  
“If you’re sad about it, you should just go with them,” Matthew said kindly.  
  
“I’m not sad about anything. Now shut it.”  
  
“Yeah but you’re frowning all the time,” Alfred said as he sipped his soda. “I’m sure Francis wouldn’t mind.”  
  
“I said shut it.”  
  
“Arthur—”  
  
“DAMN IT ALL, ELIZA I SAID I’M ALL RIGHT!” he burst out, annoyed. Because really, it was all right; why shouldn’t it be?  
  
“Arthur,” Matthew scolded.  
  
“I-I’m sorry,” Arthur stuttered, upon realizing what he'd done. Why did he burst out like that?  
  
She smiled at him, unaffected. “It’s all right,” she said rubbing his shoulder. “Let’s just enjoy the day, shall we?”  
  
Arthur nodded. No really, why did he burst out like that?  
  
“I’m sure Roderich and Gilbert will be able to handle Ivan if he gets out of hand.”  
  
“Hey he’s not that bad,” Alfred retorted. “He’ll behave himself.”  
  
“Well then, let’s go have some fun?” Matthew said, putting his arm around Arthur’s shoulder.  
  
Despite himself, Arthur didn’t have that much fun. 

 

 

 

He figured, if he was going to have his long-awaited talk with the man, he should do it somewhere private where they could sit down. 

“Ivan,” Francis started quietly. “I’m tired. Can we sit somewhere?”

“Hmmm?” Ivan asked, still in very bright spirits after the tour inside the museum. “There’s a café right over there,” he said, pointing with the hand that wasn’t holding Francis’.

“No,” Francis shook his head. “How about that park over there?”

“Okay,” Ivan said, pulling Francis gently with him across the street as the latter mulled what he wanted to say over and over in his head.

Thankfully, there weren’t that many people in the park, presumably because they were at work. After all, it was a weekday.

“I like that museum,” Ivan said jovially, still holding Francis’ hand. “Did you enjoy yourself, dorogoy?”

“Yes.” Francis took a deep breath. “We need to talk.” That seemed like a good start. Francis could still remember the last time he had given him the talk. He had tried as hard as he can to spare his feelings by using gentle words, but it seems that it doesn’t work on Ivan. 

At that, Ivan visibly froze, his hand still clasping Francis’.

“W-Was it something I did?” Ivan asked, and the break in his voice made Francis’ heart clench. 

“Ivan—”

Before he knew it, Ivan was already grasping him by the shoulders and looking at him with teary eyes. “Whatever it is I did, just tell me. I won’t do it again, I promise!”

“Iv—”

Ivan pressed his forehead against the top of Francis’ head. “Please,” Ivan sobbed. “I’ll do anything. Just—give me another chance—”

“Ivan…” Francis muttered, wiping the man’s tear’s away with his thumb. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’ll d-do my best, I promise—”

Francis felt tears pricking through his eyes. He knew it would be hard. He knew Ivan would be as broken-hearted as the last time, but he can’t just lead the man on. It would be unfair to such a sweet and kind person. “Ivan, please.”

“I love you. You know that,” Ivan sobbed. “I’ll change. Whatever it is you don’t like, I’ll change it. I’ll do anything! I’ll even leave Kirov—”

“I know you would,” Francis asked before Ivan could even promise him the moon. “But I _don’t want_ you to do that,” he shook his head, “you’re not supposed to.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not you, cheri,” Francis said with a tearful smile. “I like you as you are. You know that.”

“But n-not enough,” Ivan said, his tears intensifying.

“It _is_ enough,” Francis insisted, pulling away from Ivan’s forehead. “I love you as a friend. I want to keep you in my life _as a friend._ ” He likes Ivan, he really does. It’s just that he can’t seem to love him the way the man wants him to, and he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he kept leading him on. “We won’t end up as the perfect couple. We’ve already tried that, remember? It just didn’t work then and neither will it work now.” _Or ever_.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“Find someone better,” he said with a sympathetic smile. “Find someone who will share your passions with you and who will love you the way you want—someone who can truly share in your happiness.”

“But you—you’re perfect,” Ivan pleaded inhaling deeply, hands falling to his sides in defeat. “You’re the only one who’s ever understood me.”

Francis sighed and patted the man’s cheek. “Ivan, you know that’s not true. It won’t be easy to find someone like that, so you have to keep trying!” He shifted in his place on the bench. “You’re a handsome, talented, intelligent, kind and sweet man. If you open your heart to other people, you’ll see that there are plenty of people out there who will love you.”

Ivan wiped at his face and sniffed miserably.

“Please promise me that you will try this time?”

He gave a small nod as he hiccupped and Francis couldn’t help but rub at the place between his shoulder blades in comfort. 

The sat in relative silence, with only the sounds of Ivan’s subsiding sobs between them.

“It hurts.”

Francis winced. “I know.” 

“Is there someone else?” 

Francis reddened. “N-No, Ivan. Don’t be silly.” 

To his surprise, Ivan slumped further. “It would have been better if there was someone else,” he said quietly. “At least I would’ve lost to a better man instead of nothing. Even Arthur would do.”

Francis stopped patting his back and raised a brow at him. He didn’t know just what to answer to that.

Ivan stood up, wiping more of the tears from his face. “I need some time alone.”

Francis stood up as well. “Of course. Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

Ivan nodded. He turned to Francis and engulfed him in a hug. Francis froze at first, before hugging him back.

“Take care of yourself, mon ami,” Francis whispered before Ivan released him.

Ivan gave him a sad smile, nodded, before turning to leave.

Francis smiled to himself, wiping at his cheek with his fingers. Ivan will be okay. He was sure of it.


	60. Day 189

**_Day 189_**  
  
Gilbert was right. Prague indeed had great pubs, which, here, they call _hospoda_. It was a welcome break from Paris. More importantly, they had the great beer that was a lot cheaper than those in London. The man did indeed know his beer.  
  
Why he didn’t choose to work in Prague now presented itself as a mystery to him. It seemed to be better than Paris—especially because of the fact that there weren’t as many Frenchmen here.  
  
This was already the sixth pub they’d been to since they arrived in Prague. This one particular bar, had a curiously existential name—Solid Uncertainty. Fortunately, the existentialist thoughts did not seep into their beer.  
  
“Man, Francis is missing out,” Gilbert said, sipping from his mug.  
  
Gilbert, Matthew and Arthur were the only ones from their group present at the pub, but Matthew was led away from them by a girl named Mei Li. Roderich was adamant about bringing his wife to such a place so they opted for a finer place to dine in after their trip to the Mozart Museum. Arthur tried inviting Alfred earlier, but was turned down in favour of spending the day with Ivan—whom they did not even see that morning. And Francis, well, went to his usual disappearing act.  
  
Arthur glared at him. “Must you talk about him while I’m enjoying myself?”  
  
The man looked at him with an unreadable expression. He shifted in his seat to face Arthur and looked at him squarely. “What’ve you been up to?”  
  
Arthur raised an eyebrow at him. “Shouldn’t you be asking Francis that? He keeps disappearing throughout this trip to who knows where.”  
  
“No. I know where he is and what he’s doing.”  
  
“Oh really now? And what is he up to, exactly?”  
  
“This and that,” he said, taking a swig of his beer. “Just the usual weird stuff Francis passes off as lovable quirks.”  
  
Arthur’s eyes narrowed. Gilbert wasn’t telling him anything. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”  
  
He snorted. “I don’t understand either.”  
  
The Englishman scowled. “You’re not making any sense. Are you already drunk?”  
  
“I’m not a lightweight like you. By the way, you shouldn’t get too drunk. Your ICE isn’t going to come rushing here like he does in Paris.”  
  
Arthur’s brows jumped. “How did you know about that?”  
  
“Hmmmm? I set it.”  
  
“ _What?_ ”  
  
“Yeah, Francis wasn’t happy too. But he was the best person for it, you know?”  
  
“Why would you do that?” he asked, seething.  
  
“Well, right after you threw up on Antonio, he wanted to bop you one so I had Francis send you home. Since it was so convenient, I just told them he was your ICE.”  
  
Arthur scowled at him and decided he didn't want to cause a scene in a foreign country. He'll just get back at him for this when they return to Paris. “So what is it that he really does when he’s out?”  
  
Gilbert leaned over. “Interested?”  
  
“I think I’ve made that quite clear.”  
  
The German laughed. “I don’t know either. It’s too fucked up to explain. He’s probably flirting with every living being in this city or some shit—he does that a lot.”  
  
Arthur frowned. Gilbert was already drunk. It made sense because he’d been there much earlier than he was. “You’re drunk.”  
  
His friend gave him an incredulous look. “You didn’t know? Francis can persuade _anyone_ to go out with him. I’ve seen that guy in action—man, he even has a record. Atonio comes in really close though.”  
  
He rolled his eyes. He knew. Francis was a handsome man and from what Feliciano had unwittingly revealed to him, the frog probably already went out with every woman in Paris for a casual date. Wait—why did he even care what the damned frog was doing? It didn’t really matter if he whored himself out or whatnot. That was his freedom. He didn’t care.  
Blast it all, he didn’t, all right?!  
  
And yet, his heart felt strangely despondent. He didn’t know why. Or better yet, he didn’t want to know.  
  
He put his mug down. Suddenly, it didn’t taste all that good.  
  
“Don’t be jealous, Art,” Gilbert said, grinning. “Francis will hang out with us tomorrow.”  
  
Arthur glared at him. “I’m _not_ jealous.”  
  
Gilbert scoffed and drank some more beer.  
  
Arthur looked at his drink and stood up. Maybe he’ll return once his mood brightens.  
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
“A little walk. It’s a little stuffy in here.”

Gilbert looked at him quizzically and then shrugged. “Fine. I’ll keep this for you,” he said, gesturing at Arthur’s beer. “Come back when you’re not butthurt over Francis anymore.”  
  
Arthur gave him a final glare before leaving. It was a shame. He hardly drank at all. At least there was still tomorrow. He wasn’t in the mood to search either so he decided to just take a little stroll and clear his head.  
  
As he walked, he drank in the sights of the city. Prague was beautiful. The architecture was exquisite. The lights illuminated the buildings in hues of blue and orange. It was magnificent in its own way.  
  
He unwittingly found himself on Charles Bridge—far away from where Solid Uncertainty was. He stopped in his tracks. There were a lot of people, as was customary when it came to that bridge. Souvenir stands, tourists and musicians littered the structure.  
  
Arthur sighed and took a deep breath. It was all too poetic—a lone man looking up into the sky, confused about his feelings standing in the middle of Prague’s most romantic sights, among lovers, musicians, lights and the moonlight shining back down at him.  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
Arthur looked down at the sound of the French accent. Right ahead of him was the back of black-haired man he had seen two days ago, apologizing to a lady he had bumped into while strolling on the bridge.  
  
Suddenly, all he could hear was the sound of his heart hammering in his chest.  
  
The lady smiled at him and blushed. Arthur could make out the words “it’s all right” forming on her mouth, but he couldn’t hear her. The man bowed his head slightly towards her direction and continued on his way.  
  
It took a few seconds before his legs got the message that he wanted to move. He strode as fast as he can, his heartbeat thumping in his ears. It was now or never.  
  
Arthur grabbed the man’s shoulder and turned him around. His breath caught in his throat.  
  
The man looked at him, grey eyes bewildered. He looked very familiar.  
  
“Rosbif?”  
  
Slowly, the sounds on the bridge returned to Arthur’s ears. He gawked at the black-haired man.  
  
It was Francis.  
  
“I-I can explain,” he said, touching his hair nervously. “You see, I-I try being another person when I go to another country. You know—just to see what it’s like. So…that’s why I…”  
  
Something clicked in Arthur’s head. “When were you in Beijing?”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
 _“When were you in Beijing?”_  
  
He looked at him, puzzled. “November. Late November of 2000.”  
  
It was him. All this time he kept criticising God’s sense of humour when he let Francis become his neighbour. All this time, the person he’d been looking for was right next door, trespassing into his home to cook him breakfast and unconsciously flirting with him. Why hadn’t he seen it before?  
  
Arthur grabbed the lapels of his shirt and pulled him into a kiss. He had never felt as free as he did that moment when he smashed his lips against Francis’. Annoying snooty frog or not, he didn’t care anymore. That moment he finally stopped lying to himself.  
  
He _liked_ Francis.  
  
Well, perhaps like was putting it too mildly.  
  
He pulled back and saw Francis furiously flushing and wide-eyed at Arthur. Francis blushing and speechless—it seemed so surreal. He noticed that the musicians near them changed their tune into something more romantic, probably during the course of the kiss. He felt his chest swell with pride for having perfected the timing and setting for the first time. The only way this could have been more romantic was if the whole bridge was lit by hundreds of candles, and he had a bouquet of red roses and a ring. But he wasn’t really proposing marriage just yet.  
  
“W-Wha—”  
  
“Francis Bonnefoy, will you date me?”  
  
If it was possible, Francis’ eyes grew even wider.  
  
“I-I-I A-Arth—”  
  
“Just say ‘yes’ you git.”  
  
Francis clamped his mouth shut and simply stared at the man still holding his shirt.  
  
“Yes.” The Brit smiled and pulled him back for another kiss.  
  
Arthur never went back for that beer.


End file.
